Before I can answer, my wife interposes. She insists (in a shrill voice, adapted to our host's hardness of hearing) on knowing who that unfortunate person is sleeping on the straw. "Where does he come from? Why does he say such dreadful things in his sleep? Is he married or single? Did he ever fall in love with a murderess? What sort of a looking woman was she? Did she really stab him or not? In short, dear Mr. Landlord, tell us the whole story!" Dear Mr. Landlord waits drowsily until Mrs. Fairbank has quite done--then delivers himself of his reply as follows: "His name's Francis Raven. He's an Independent Methodist. He was forty-five year old last birthday. And he's my hostler. That's his story." My wife's hot southern temper finds its way to her foot, and expresses itself by a stamp on the stable yard. The landlord turns himself sleepily round, and looks at the horses. "A fine pair of horses, them two in the yard. Do you want to put 'em in my stables?" I reply in the affirmative by a nod. The landlord, bent on making himself agreeable to my wife, addresses her once more. "I'm a-going to wake Francis Raven. He's an Independent Methodist. He was forty-five year old last birthday. And he's my hostler. That's his story." Having issued this second edition of his interesting narrative, the landlord enters the stable. We follow him to see how he will wake Francis Raven, and what will happen upon that. The stable broom stands in a corner; the landlord takes it--advances toward the sleeping hostler--and coolly stirs the man up with a broom as if he was a wild beast in a cage. Francis Raven starts to his feet with a cry of terror--looks at us wildly, with a horrid glare of suspicion in his eyes--recovers himself the next moment--and suddenly changes into a decent, quiet, respectable serving-man. "I beg your pardon, ma'am. I beg your pardon, sir." The tone and manner in which he makes his apologies are both above his apparent station in life. I begin to catch the infection of Mrs. Fairbank's interest in this man. We both follow him out into the yard to see what he will do with the horses. The manner in which he lifts the injured leg of the lame horse tells me at once that he understands his business. Quickly and quietly, he leads the animal into an empty stable; quickly and quietly, he gets a bucket of hot water, and puts the lame horse's leg into it. "The warm water will reduce the swelling, sir. I will bandage the leg afterwards." All that he does is done intelligently; all that he says, he says to the purpose. Nothing wild, nothing strange about him now. Is this the same man whom we heard talking in his sleep?--the same man who woke with that cry of terror and that horrid suspicion in his eyes? I determine to try him with one or two questions. III "Not much to do here," I say to the hostler. "Very little to do, sir," the hostler replies. "Anybody staying in the house?" "The house is quite empty, sir."