With an ingrained perversity, the more Laura Grey warned me against this man, the more I became interested in him. She and I were both unusually silent that evening. I think that her thoughts were busy with him; I know that mine were. "We won't mind opening the window to-night," said Laura. "I was just thinking how pleasant it would be. Why should we not open it?" I answered. "Because we should have him here again; and he is not the sort of person your mamma would like you to become acquainted with." I was a little out of humour, but did not persist. I sat in a sullen silence, my eyes looking dreamily through the window. The early twilight had faded into night by the time the stranger re-appeared. I saw him turn the line of his walk near the window; and seeing it shut, pause for a moment. I dare say he was more vexed than I. He made up his mind, however, against a scene. He looked on the ground and over his shoulder, again at the window. Mr. Marston walked round the corner to the steward's house. The vague shadows and lights of night were abroad by this time. Candles were in his room; he found Rebecca Torkill there, with a small tankard and a tea-cup on a salver, awaiting his return. "La! sir, to think of you doing such another wild thing, and you, only this minute, at death's door with your head! And how is it now, please, sir?" "A thousand thanks. My head is as well as my hat. My headache goes as it comes, in a moment. What is this?" "Some gruel, please, sir, with sugar, white wine, and nutmeg. I thought you might like it." "Caudle, by Jove!" smiled the gentleman, "isn't it?" "Well, it is; and it's none the worse o' that." "All the better," exclaimed Mr. Marston, who chose to be on friendly terms with the old lady. "How can I thank you?" "It's just the best thing in the world to make you sleep after a headache. You'll take some while it's hot." "I can't thank you half enough," he said. "I'll come back, sir, and see you by-and-by," and the good woman toddled out, leaving him alone with his gruel. "I must not offend her." He poured some out into his cup, tasted it, and laughed quietly. "Sipping caudle! Well, this is rather a change for Richard Marston, by Jove! A change every day. Let us make a carouse of it," he said, and threw it out of the window. Mr. Marston threw on his loose wrapper, and folded his muffler about his throat, replaced his hat, and with his cane in his fingers, was about to walk down to the town of Cardyllion. A word or two spoken, quite unsuspiciously, by Doctor Mervyn that morning, had touched a sensitive nerve, and awakened a very acute anxiety in Mr. Marston's mind. The result was his intended visit, at the fall of night, to the High-street of the quaint little town. He was on the point of setting out, when Rebecca Torkill returned with a sliced lemon on a plate. "Some likes a squeeze of a lemon in it," she observed, "and I thought I might as well leave it here."