Then he knocked at the door by which he was just then standing. There was some delay there, but when the door opened there was a strong light in the passage behind it, and he found himself confronting a tall, gaunt, white-haired woman, gowned in rusty black, over whose shoulders were thrown an old Paisley shawl. He looked uninterestedly at her--one landlady was pretty much as other landladies. "Can you let me have a room and a bit of supper and breakfast?" he began. "I used to put up at Mrs. Watson's, lower down, but I find she dead, so----" Then he suddenly stopped, hearing the woman catch her breath and seeing a quick start of surprise in her as she leaned forward to stare at him. And he, too, leaned nearer, and stared. "Good Lord!" he muttered. "Jeckie! Jeckie Farnish! Well, I never!" Jeckie held the door wider, motioning the applicant to step inside. "I knew you, Albert Grice, as soon as you spoke," she said, in a dull, almost sullen voice. "Come in! I can find what you want. Where's your wife?" she went on, as she pointed him to a hat-stand. "Is she here, waiting anywhere, in the town, or is it just for yourself?" Albert set down his umbrella and bag, and began to take off his coat. "Lucilla's dead," he replied, shortly. "Five or six years since. I'd no idea of coming across you! I was here, once or twice--business, you know--for a night, some years since, at that Mrs. Watson's----" "Come this way," said Jeckie. She walked before him down the narrow passage to a living-room at the end, a homely, comfortable place, where there was a bright fire, something cooking on the range, and, in an elbow-chair at the side of the hearth, an old, white-bearded man who smiled and nodded as Albert walked in. "You remember him," continued Jeckie, pointing to Farnish. "He's lost his memory--he wouldn't know you from Adam!--he's forgotten all about Savilestowe, and he thinks he's a retired farmer--wi' lots o' money!" she added, grimly. "Speak to him--but take no notice of what he says--he talks all sorts o' soft stuff." Albert went up to Farnish and offered his hand. "Ah, how do you do, sir?" he asked. "Hope I see you well, sir?" "Ah, how do you do, sir?" responded Farnish, with another infantile smile. "I hope you're well yourself? Friend o' my dowter's, no doubt, sir, and kindly welcome. Jecholiah, mi lass, what'll the gentleman tak' to drink--ye mun get out the sperrits--and there'll be a bit o' tobacco in the jar, somewhere, no doubt." "Sit you down," said Jeckie, motioning Albert to another elbow-chair. "There's some hot supper in t'oven; plenty of it, and good, too, and we'll have it in a minute, and then he'll go to his bed--he's quiet and harmless enough, but his mind's gone--at least his memory has." "Does he ever take a glass?" asked Albert, staring curiously at Farnish. "I see he's got his pipe handy." "Oh, I give him a drop every night before he goes to bed," said Jeckie, already bustling about the hearth. "That does him no harm."