“There’s nothing nearer,” she made haste to say. “There’s no house at all between this and Middleton. And I’d advise you to be getting along, for the snow’ll be far worse ere the night’s fallen than what it is, and the road is not----” The voice of a girl, clear, musical, and with a touch of masterfulness in it, broke in on the woman’s harsh accents. “Tibbie! What is it?--who is there?” The woman frowned. But--involuntarily--she opened the door wider. I saw then that she was standing in a square stone hall of very small dimensions, and that from her right hand stone steps, obviously set in a newel stair, gave access to the upper regions of this queer old place. And I saw more--I saw a pair of slim and shapely ankles, in smart stockings and shoes; the edge of a dainty skirt, and the projection of the stair out of all else. “It’s a young man, miss, wants to know his way,” said the janitor. “He’s for Wooler, and I’ve told him----” “For Wooler? In this snow? Impossible, Tibbie! Why----” The smart shoes suddenly tripped down the stair. Before I could realise my luck their owner was confronting me with curiosity and interest. I suppose I looked pretty forlorn and tramp-like; my water-proof coat was none of the newest, and I was wearing a disreputable, favourite old hat. But I uncovered and made my best bow. And if I stared it was because the light of the old woman’s lamp showed me the prettiest girl I had ever had the good fortune to see. Perhaps, because we were both young, I made bold to smile at her--knowingly. “You think I shall be--lost in the snow and found dead in the morning?” I suggested. “That’s precisely what you will be if you try to reach Wooler to-night,” she answered, with some liveliness. “Such a thing’s impossible! even if you knew the way, and I think you don’t. Of course, you must stay here. My guardian, Mr. Parslewe, is out, but----” “The master is not one for strangers, miss,” interrupted the old woman. “His orders----” The girl turned on her with a flash of her grey eyes that gave me a good notion of her imperious temper and general masterfulness. “Fiddle-de-dee, Tibbie!” she exclaimed. “Your master would have a good deal to say if we turned anybody from his door on a night like this. You must come in,” she went on, turning smilingly to me. “Mr. Parslewe is the most hospitable man alive, and if he were in he’d welcome you heartily. I don’t know whether he’ll manage to get home to-night or not. But I’m at home!” she concluded with a sudden glint in her eye. “Come up the stair!”