I was glad enough, and we had taken a few steps forward when he suddenly clapped his hands to his pockets. "I shall have to get into the bush again," he cried, with rueful face; "I must have dropped 'Peer Gynt.'" And in he scrambled, returning triumphant with an exceedingly shabby book. We walked a full hour and a half, through the park, through the woods, and through the park again, for he insisted on bringing me back to the little blue door. We talked mostly about "Peer Gynt," which, by the way, he is reading in the original. He seems to read every possible language, although he declares he speaks nothing but English. We did not talk at all about ourselves, so I know nothing further about him, save that he lives in a cottage on the heath towards Miltonhoe, with his father and his aunt. When we parted company, he asked me if I would mind going to see his aunt. "I believe," said he, "that she ought to call first on you,--at least, she says so,--but that she'll never do. If I landed her at your very door, she'd never find courage to ring the bell." "Very well," said I; "I'll come to her instead." And the sprite vanished. I think I shall go to-morrow, or perhaps next day. Good-bye, sweet, Your EMILIA. LETTER XIV. GRAYSMILL, October 23d. You are a dear to take such becoming interest in my friend. I have a great deal more to tell you about the lunatic, as you call him, who, by the way, is a great deal saner than either you or I. Well, I went last Thursday. It took me some time to find the cottage. After much rambling I came upon it in the most secluded part of the Common, in a slight hollow. It is a sort of double cottage, partly thatched, standing in a good-sized garden. I marched through a rickety gate, and made for the house door. The garden is one wild medley of vegetables, fruit-trees, and flowers, luxuriant still, in spite of the late season. I was just bending over a chrysanthemum when I heard a startling "Hulloa!" and found myself accosted by the gardener, who stood, spade in hand, at the opposite end of the gravel walk. He was in his shirtsleeves; his corduroy trousers were more picturesque than respectable; an enormous straw hat, well tanned and chipped by wear, was stuck on the back of his head. "Hulloa!" he cried again. I approached and asked, as soon as I could do so without shouting, whether Miss Norton were at home. "She is at home," replied the man, "and who may you be?" "Perhaps you will kindly tell her," said I, making up by my civility for his lack of it, "that Emilia Fletcher has come to see her." Down went the spade, off came the disreputable hat. "God bless my soul!" he cried, rubbing the earth off his fingers, "so it's you, is it?" He seemed doubtful whether his hand were fit to offer me or not, so I relieved him of his anxiety by shaking it warmly.