There was little difficulty in finding the abode of Miss Destiny who appeared to be as well-known in Burwain as St. Paul's Cathedral is in the metropolis. Her miserly character appeared to be common talk, and when I reached the end of the village and sighted her cottage I could well understand why it was no secret. A gentlewoman with a certain amount of money, however small, would never have dwelt in such a hovel, unless she grudged every farthing to render it sightly and comfortable. For Miss Destiny had her abode in a tiny house of galvanized tin, standing some distance from the main road, and almost hidden by a dank growth of tall weeds, and shrubs and neglected trees. A sod fence fringed the roadway, and therein was placed midway a rickety wooden gate with a broken hinge. From this a crooked pathway made by feet and worn by feet and preserved as an entrance by feet, meandered to the green-painted front door. On either side docks and darnells and brambles and coarse grasses and weeds flourished in profusion breast-high. And overhanging the tin shed--it could scarcely be called a cottage--were two gigantic elms, which dropped their decayed branches on the roof and round the walls, where they lay to add to the sordid confusion of the place. Viewing this desolation, I could only think of the chateau of the Yellow Dwarf, as described by Madame D'Aulnoy. I walked up the sodden path--the tin shed seemed to have been built in a swamp, so oozy was the ground--and rapped smartly at the narrow front door. On either side were two small windows, through the glass of which I caught a glimpse of iron bars, which proved that Miss Destiny had made necessary provision against burglars. What struck me as odd was the absence of a chimney, but I had no time to consider this, for shortly I heard the rattle of a chain and the sound of bolts being drawn back. Then the door was opened an inch or two to reveal the dull eyes and mustached lip of Lucinda. The expression of her face was aggressive and watchful. "What do you want?" she demanded in her beautiful voice, which struck me anew as singularly sympathetic despite her rough greeting. "I am Mr. Cyrus Vance, who was at Mootley," I explained elaborately, "and I wish to see Miss Destiny." Before I ended my request I heard a little, low, fluttering laugh, and Lucinda, opening the door widely, moved aside to show the tiny figure of her mistress with outstretched hands. "Prince Charming come in search of the Sleeping Beauty," cried Miss Destiny, romantically, "and all because he saw a portrait of the lady. Come in, Mr. Vance, come in. I can promise you flesh and blood this time, my dear adventurer." There was little change about the old lady. She still wore the threadbare black silk dress, though without the velvet mantle, and her snow-white hair was still piled up after the fashion of Louis XVI's ill-fated queen.