'But you ought not to do that,' said the old man. 'You ought not to marry a poor man. Poverty is a bad thing, my dear. You are a pretty girl, and ought to marry a man with a handsome fortune. Poor men have no pleasure in this world--they might just as well be dead. I am poor, as you see. You can tell by this threadbare coat'--he looked down at the sleeve from which the nap was worn in places--'I am as poor as a church mouse.' 'But you have kind friends, I dare say,' Mary said, soothingly. 'You are well taken care of, I am sure.' 'Yes, I am well taken care of--very well taken care of. How long is it, I wonder--how many weeks, or months, or years, since they have taken care of me? It seems a long, long time; but it is all like a dream--a long dream. Once I used to try and wake myself. I used to try and struggle out of that weary dream. But that was ages ago. I am satisfied now--I am quite content now--so long as the weather is warm, and I can sit out here in the sun.' 'It is growing chilly now,' said Mary, 'and I think you ought to go indoors. I know that I must go.' 'Yes, I must go in now--I am getting shivery,' answered the old man, meekly. 'But I want to see you again, Mary--I like your face--and I like your voice. It strikes a chord here,' touching his breast, 'which has long been silent. Let me see you again, child. When can I see you again?' 'Do you sit here every afternoon when it is fine?' 'Yes, every day--all day long sometimes when the sun is warm.' 'Then I will come here to see you.' 'You must keep it a secret, then,' said the old man, with a crafty look. 'If you don't they will shut me up in the house, perhaps. They don't like me to see people, for fear I should talk. I have heard Steadman say so. Yet what should I talk about, heaven help me? Steadman says my memory is quite gone, and that I am childish and harmless--childish and harmless. I have heard him say that. You'll come again, won't you, and you'll keep it a secret?' Mary deliberated for a few minutes. 'I don't like secrets,' she said, 'there is generally something dishonourable in them. But this would be an innocent secret, wouldn't it? Well, I'll come to see you somehow, poor old man; and if Steadman sees me here I will make everything right with him.' 'He mustn't see you here,' said the old man. 'If he does he will shut me up in my own rooms again, as he did once, years and years ago.' 'But you have not been here long, have you?' Mary asked, wonderingly. 'A hundred years, at least. That's what it seems to me sometimes. And yet there are times when it seems only a dream. Be sure you come again to-morrow.' 'Yes, I promise you to come; good-night.' 'Good-night.' Mary went back to the stable. The door was still open, but how could she be sure that it would be open to-morrow? There was no other access that she knew of to the quadrangle, except through the old part of the house, and that was at times inaccessible to her.