Had Forester cared for the amount of the reckoning, which he did not, he might have entertained grave fears of its total, on the principle well known to travellers, that the speed of its coming is always in the inverse ratio of the sum, and that every second's delay is sure to swell its proportions. Of this he never thought once; but he often reflected on the tardiness of waiters, and the lingering tediousness of the moments of parting. “It's coming, sir; he 's just adding it up,” said the head waiter, for the sixth time within three minutes, while he moved to and fro, with the official alacrity that counterfeits despatch. “I 'm afraid you 'll have a bad night, sir. I 'm sure the horses won't be able to face the storm over Grange Connel.” Forester made no reply, but walked up and down the hall in moody silence. “The gentleman that got off the mail thought so too,” added the waiter; “and now he 's pleasanter at his supper, iu the coffee-room, than sitting out there, next to the guard, wet to the skin, and shivering with cold.” Less to inspect the stranger thus alluded to than to escape the impertinent loquacity of the waiter, Forester turned the handle of the door, and entered the coffee-room. It was a large, dingy-looking chamber, whose only bright spot seemed within the glow of a blazing turf-fire, where at a little table a gentleman was seated at supper. His back was turned to Forester; but even in the cursory glance the latter gave, he could perceive that he was an elderly personage, and one who had not abandoned the almost bygone custom of a queue. The stranger, dividing his time between his meal and a newspaper,--which he devoured more eagerly than the viands before him,--paid no attention to Forester's entrance; nor did he once look round. As the waiter approached, he asked hastily, “What chance there was of getting forward?” “Indeed, sir, to tell the truth,” drawled out the man, “the storm seems getting worse, instead of better. Miles Finerty's new house, at the end of the street, is just blown down.” “Never mind Miles Finerty, my good friend, for the present,” rejoined the old gentleman, mildly, “but just tell me, are horses to be had?” “Faith! and to tell your honor no lie, I 'm afraid of it.” Here he dropped to a whisper. “The sick-looking gentleman, yonder, has four waiting for him, since nine o'clock; and we 've only a lame mare and a pony in the stable.” “Am I never to get this bill?” cried out Forester, in a tone that illness had rendered peculiarly querulous. “I have asked, begged for it, for above an hour, and here I am still.”