wooden barrier and up a low bank, and, having thus gained the road, went on alone to the ale-house. The village street was deserted, but the ale-house windows showed light; and the sound of slow, broad voices, mingled in chaffing disputation, indicated that ale was flowing in the general room. Everell went by way of the passage to his own chamber, where a lighted candle awaited him. He rang for the landlord. “I’ve found a conveyance to Burndale to-night,” said Everell, when the old man appeared. “A belated carrier, I believe, whom I met at the bridge yonder, where he’s waiting for me. But as I took this room for the night, you must allow me to pay for it, and the price of breakfast, too.” The landlord, whose face had lengthened at the first words, now resumed his serenity, and he amiably gathered in the silver that Everell had laid on the table. This seemed to warm him into solicitude for the departing guest’s convenience, and he expressed the hope that the wagoner was at the door to carry the bag. “Nay, he wouldn’t turn back,” said Everell; “nor could he leave his horses. But ’tis not far to the bridge.” And he took up the bag to bear it himself. “Nay, then, your pardon, sir, I’ll carry it,” interposed the landlord. “My good man, I wouldn’t think of taking you from your house and customers.” “’Tis not far, as you say, sir, and my daughter—” But Everell had gone, and the obliging old fellow was left to scratch his head and wonder. The more he wondered, the more reason there seemed for doing so. He had not heard anything like a carrier’s wagon pass, as it must have done if it was now at the bridge and bound for Burndale. It was strange enough that a carrier’s wagon should travel that road at such an hour, and stranger still that it should do so without its custodian stopping for a cup of good cheer. And the gentleman’s unwillingness to have his baggage carried! The ale-house keeper was not so old as to have outlived curiosity. He slipped out, crossed the green, and stood in the middle of the road, peering through the starlit night. Yes, there was the figure of the gentleman, truly enough, swiftly retreating down the village street that led to the bridge. The landlord slunk after him, keeping close to the walls and hedges, and stepping silently. He was soon sufficiently near the bridge to perceive that no conveyance waited there. The assurance of this acted so upon his mind as to make him stop and consider whether it was safe to go further. As he stood gaping, the form of the strange gentleman suddenly vanished. The old man stared for another moment: then, assailed with a feeling that here was mystery nothing short of devil’s work, he turned and fled in a panic to his ale-house.