He muttered this rather to himself than to her; and passed in; but neither his manner nor the words, low as was the tone in which they were spoken, escaped her; and with a heart sinking with apprehension, of she knew not what, for the appearance of any stranger at the house filled her with dread now, she admitted him into the room where her father was. It was the same poorly-furnished apartment in which the old man was when first introduced to the reader. He occupied the same seat, and sat almost in the same attitude, with his hands clasped over his knees, his chin bowed down on his breast, his dark eyes peering from beneath his shaggy white brows, and apparently watching the crumbling embers in the fire-place. His face was wan and haggard, even beyond its wont; and he had a watchful, suspicious look, which was not natural to him. As the door opened, he started, glanced quickly at the strangers, then at his daughter, as if she and they were in some manner associated in his mind. 'Don't go, Kate! don't go! I want you here,' said he, in a quick, anxious tone, seeing that she was closing the door without entering; 'don't go, my child. Our business is no secret.' As he said this, he cast an inquiring look at the two, to ascertain that he was correct, and pointed with a hesitating finger to a chair. Mr. Chicken bowed gratefully, took it immediately, removed his hat, placed his cane between his knees, ran his fingers through his hair, and looked up at the ceiling, after the manner of persons who are occasionally present at interviews in which they have no concern, and in which they have no intention of meddling. Grosket, however, stood where he was, with his hat on, looking steadily in the agitated face of the old man. At last he said: 'So you don't know me?' Rhoneland eyed him for a long time; at last he shook his head. 'Yet you _ought_ to,' said Grosket, in the same tone. 'Look at me again.' Again the old man bent his eyes upon his face, and studied his features; and certainly they were not of a character to be easily forgotten; but again he was at fault; he did not know him. 'It's strange!' muttered the other; 'a friend is often forgotten, but an enemy rarely. My name is Grosket--Enoch Grosket.' A bright flush passed over the old man's face, as he heard the name, and he half rose from his chair. 'Yes, yes,' said he, quickly; 'I know now; the friend of Michael Rust. Kate,' said he, suddenly turning to the girl, who was leaning over his chair; 'you can go--go, Kate; leave the room, my child. This is only a friend of Mr. Rust's.' 'It's scarcely worth while,' said Grosket, 'for what I have to say of Rust will soon be spoken in the open day; ay, in his teeth will I fling my charges; before the whole world will I make them; I will brand him with a mark that he will carry to his grave! No, no, Jacob Rhoneland. I'm _not_ a friend of Michael Rust, and he'll find it so. I've too many wrongs to settle with him, for that.'