He sat down as he spoke, without any further parley, and looked out at the prospect. He was an easy well-knit figure of a man in the prime of life. His face, much browned by the sun, was shaded by a quantity of dark hair; and he wore a moustache. His beer being set before him, he filled out a glass, and drank, good-humouredly, to the house; adding, as he put the tumbler down again: "It's a new house, is it not?" "Not particularly new, Sir," replied Mr. Britain. "Between five and six years old," said Clemency: speaking very distinctly. "I think I heard you mention Doctor Jeddler's name, as I came in," inquired the stranger. "That bill reminds me of him; for I happen to know something of that story, by hearsay, and through certain connexions of mine.--Is the old man living?" "Yes, he's living, Sir," said Clemency. "Much changed?" "Since when, Sir?" returned Clemency, with remarkable emphasis and expression. "Since his daughter--went away." "Yes! he's greatly changed since then," said Clemency. "He's grey and old, and hasn't the same way with him at all; but I think he's happy now. He has taken on with his sister since then, and goes to see her very often. That did him good, directly. At first, he was sadly broken down; and it was enough to make one's heart bleed, to see him wandering about, railing at the world; but a great change for the better came over him after a year or two, and then he began to like to talk about his lost daughter, and to praise her, ay and the world too! and was never tired of saying, with the tears in his poor eyes, how beautiful and good she was. He had forgiven her then. That was about the same time as Miss Grace's marriage. Britain, you remember?" Mr. Britain remembered very well. "The sister _is_ married then," returned the stranger. He paused for some time before he asked, "To whom?" Clemency narrowly escaped oversetting the tea-board, in her emotion at this question. "Did _you_ never hear?" she said. "I should like to hear," he replied, as he filled his glass again, and raised it to his lips. "Ah! It would be a long story, if it was properly told," said Clemency, resting her chin on the palm of her left hand, and supporting that elbow on her right hand, as she shook her head, and looked back through the intervening years, as if she were looking at a fire. "It would be a long story, I am sure." "But told as a short one," suggested the stranger. "Told as a short one," repeated Clemency in the same thoughtful tone, and without any apparent reference to him, or consciousness of having auditors, "what would there be to tell? That they grieved together, and remembered her together, like a person dead; that they were so tender of her, never would reproach her, called her back to one another as she used to be, and found excuses for her? Every one knows that. I'm sure _I_ do. No one better," added Clemency, wiping her eyes with her hand. "And so," suggested the stranger.