She made no direct answer, but shook her head and prepared to close the door. Piqued by the discourtesy, and still more by the mystery of this reception, I was about to insist upon admission, when my attention was attracted to a face at the near window. I recognized it as that of a college friend, and waved my stick in greeting. "Halloa, Briarfield!" I shouted lustily. "Come and help me to a night's lodgings." The girl was surprised by my remark, and, as I thought, changed color. She stepped aside to let Briarfield pass, and exhibited further astonishment at the urbanity of our greeting. "What wind blows you here, Denham?" asked Briarfield, shaking my hand. "I am on a walking tour," I answered, "and hoped to have reached Marshminster to-night. But as it is ten miles away and I feel weary I wish to sleep here. This young lady, however, says the inn is full of guests and----" "Full of guests!" interrupted Briarfield, looking at the girl. "Nonsense, Rose, I am the only guest here!" "We expect others, sir," said Rose obstinately. "You can't expect a sufficient number to fill the house," he retorted; "surely Mr. Denham can have a bed?" "I shall ask my father, sir!" When she disappeared Briarfield turned to me with a smile, and asked a strange question. "Now, I'll be bound," said he, "that you don't know my first name?" "Felix." "No! You are wrong, I am not the rich Felix, but the poor Francis." "You see the result of being one of twins," said I impatiently; "if at college I could not distinguish between you how can you expect me to do so now? I haven't seen either you or your brother for at least two years. Where is Felix?" "At Marshminster." "And what are you doing here?" "Ah, that's a long story. If you----" "Please to walk in, sir," interrupted Rose at this moment, "my father desires to speak with you." "I have then to submit myself to the approval of the landlord," said I, and forthwith entered the house, followed by Francis Briarfield. The landlord, a lean, saturnine man, above the common height, saluted me with a sour smile. In appearance and demeanor he was quite in keeping with that dreary inn. About him lurked a Puritanic flavor, not ill suited to his somber attire and unctuous speech. He was less like an innkeeper than a smug valet. I mistrusted the man at first sight. "I can give you supper and a bed, sir," said he, bending his body and rubbing his hands, "neither, I regret to say, of the first quality." "Never mind," I answered, unstrapping my knapsack. "I am too tired and hungry to be particular." "We have only lately taken up this house, sir," he continued, still bowing, "and things are a trifle disordered."