The man did not answer. The other repeated his question in a more peremptory tone. Already--he could not have said why--a prejudice was forming in his mind against this patient-spoken servant. “Of whose providing? I say. Why--don’t you know?” “It has always been here, sir. It was here before I came.” “And when was that?” The answer followed so soft that the baronet could scarcely distinguish it. “Speak out, sir!” said he angrily. “When was that? I ask.” The caretaker cleared his throat. “It was in November of the year ’79.” “The year before my father’s death? Why, man, do you mean to tell me you have lived here all this age--lived and vegetated in this isolation for twenty-one years?” “It is true, indeed, sir.” “You were a boy when you came. Your ambition is a tortoise. And who was the last tenant?” Again the soft, distressed answer: “I don’t know, sir. Indeed I don’t know. How can I tell?” “How, truly--for one who can be content to rust in a solitude for a double decade? Well--you take your service from Mr. Creel, I suppose; and he knows his business. And whither do you wend now?” The man was emboldened to step forward, his eyes shining with a pitiful anxiety. “Oh, sir, sir! If you will only continue the service? We have no home or hope or prospect without ‘Delsrop’; and Mr. Creel--Mr. Creel, sir, he bade me throw myself upon your bounty.” “I am beholden to him.” He looked a little sourly on the flushed, weak face. Perhaps there had been small charge of powder behind his shot; but anyhow, in the long run, good-nature was sure to incline him to generosity. “I will consider of it,” he said coolly. “Perhaps you can prove yourself worthy of my interest. For the present, at least, you may stop--you, and your sister, to whom I conclude you desire me to extend the permission.” “If you will, sir. And I can only thank you from my heart.” His broken tones found a weak spot in the other’s breast. “Well,” he said--“well, what are you called?” “My name is Dennis.” “And your sister?” “She is Darda.” “H’m! A pet expression, I presume.” “Indeed, no, sir. ’Tis Hebrew, and signifies ‘Pearl of Wisdom.’” “And is she that?” “Ah, sir! ’Twas a fanciful notion of her mother’s. God help her, poor stricken loveling! Sure the fiends of pride suggested it in a bitter irony.” “What ails her?” “Her mind keeps no growth with her body. In this, her twenty-fifth year, she is nought but a wayward and fantastic child.” “My household figures out apace. And you two are alone on the premises?” “Alone, sir, and have always been.” “Well, Mr. Dennis Whimple--and I would say, ‘as I would be, too.’ Leave me, my good fellow, and light me presently to bed.” The caretaker withdrew, with a humble obeisance, and Mr. Tuke sat down to his meal. This proved homely enough, but acceptable to a ravenous stomach; and no doubt the wine made rich amends for the poverty of the repast.