AND now the stranger stood before the steward’s house, which is an old stone building, just three stories high, with but few rooms, and heavy stone shafts to the windows, with little diamond lattices in them, all stained and gray with age — antiquaries assign it to the period of Henry VII. — and when the Jewish gentleman, his wide, loose mouth smiling in solitary expectation, slapped and rattled his cane upon the planks of the hatch, as people in old times called “house!” to summon the servants, he was violating the monastic silence of a building as old as the bygone friars, with their matin bells and solemn chants.

A little Welsh girl looked over the clumsy banister, and ran up with his message to Mrs. Mervyn.

“Will you please come up stairs, sir, to the drawing-room?” asked the child.

He was amused at the notion of a “drawing-room” in such a place, and with a lazy sneer climbed the stairs after her.

This drawing-room was very dark at this hour, except for the patch of red light that came through the lattice and rested on the old cupboard opposite, on which stood, shelf above shelf, a grove of coloured delf candlesticks, tea-cups, jugs, men, women, teapots, and beasts, all in an old-world style, a decoration which prevails in humble Welsh chambers, and which here was a property of the house, forgotten, I presume, by the great house of Verney, and transmitted from tenant to tenant, with the lumbering furniture.

The flighty old lady, Mrs. Mervyn of the large eyes, received him with an old-fashioned politeness and formality which did not in the least embarrass her visitor, who sate himself down, smiling his moist, lazy smile, with his knees protruded under the table, on which his elbows rested, and with his heels on the rung of his chair, while his hat and cane lay in the sunlight beside him.

“The maid, I think, forgot to mention your name, sir?” said the old lady gently, but in a tone of inquiry.

“Very like, ma’am-very like, indeed — because, I think, I forgot to mention my name to her,” he drawled pleasantly. “I’ve taken a deal of trouble — I have — to find you out, ma’am, and two hundred and forty-five miles here, ma’am, and the same back again — a journey of four hundred and ninety miles — is not just nothing. I’m glad to see you, ma’am-happy to find you in your drawing-room, ma’am-hope you find yourself as well, ma’am, as your numerous friends could wish you. My name, ma’am, is Levi, being junior governor of the firm of Goldshed and Levi, well known on ‘Change, ma’am, and justly appreciated by a large circle of friends, as you may read upon this card.”

The card which he tendered did not, it must be allowed, speak of these admiring friends, but simply announced that “Goldshed and Levi” were “Stockbrokers,” pursuing their calling at “Offices — 10, Scroop Street, Gimmel Lane,” in the City. And having held this card before her eyes for a sufficient time, he put it into his pocket.

“You see, ma’am, I’ve come all this way for our house, to ask you whether you would like to hear some news of your governor, ma’am?”

“Of whom, sir?” inquired the tall old lady, who had remained standing all this time, as she had received him, and was now looking at him with eyes, not of suspicion, but of undisguised fear.

“Of your husband, ma’am, I mean,” drawled he, eyeing her with his cunning smile.

“You don’t mean, sir ——” said she faintly, and thereupon she was seized with a trembling, and sat down, and her very lips turned white, and Mr. Levi began to think “the old girl was looking uncommon queerish,” and did not like the idea of “its happening,” under these circumstances.

“There, ma’am-don’t take on! Where’s the water? Da-a-a-mn the drop!” he exclaimed, turning up mugs and jugs in a flurry. “I say — Mary Anne — Jane — chick-a-biddy — girl — be alive there, will ye?” howled the visitor over the banister. “Water, can’t ye? Old woman’s sick!”

“Better now, sir — better — just open that — a little air, please,” the old lady whispered.

With some hurried fumbling he succeeded in getting the lattice open.

“Water, will you? What a time you’re about it, little beast!” he bawled in the face of the child.

“Much better, thanks — very much better,” whispered the old lady.

“Of course, you’re better, ma’am. Here it is at la-a-ast. Have some water, ma’am? Do. Give her the water, you little fool.”

She sipped a little.

“Coming round — all right,” he said tenderly. “What cattle them old women are! drat them.” A little pause followed.

“A deal better now, ma’am?”

“I’m startled, sir.”

“Of course you’re startled, ma’am.”

“And faint.”

“Why not, ma’am?”

Mrs. Rebecca Mervyn breathed three or four great sighs, and began to look again like a living woman.

“Now she looks quite nice,” (he pronounced it ni-i-ishe) “doesn’t she? You may make tracksh, young woman; go, will you?”

“I feel so much better,” said the old lady when they were alone, “pray go on.”

“You do — quite — ever so much better. Shall I go on?”

“Pray do, sir.”

“Well now, see, if I do, there must be no more of that, old lady. If you can’t talk of the governor, we’ll just let him alone,” said Levi, sturdily.

“For God’s sake, sir, if you mean my husband, tell me all you know.”

“All aint a great deal, ma’am; but a cove has turned up who knew him well.”

“Some one who knew him?”

“Just so, ma’am.” He balanced whether he should tell her that he was dead or not, but decided that it would be more convenient, though less tragic, to avoid getting up a new scene like the other, so he modified his narrative. “He’s turned up, ma’am, and knew him very intimate; and has got a meogny” (he so pronounced mahogany) “desk of his, gave in charge to him, since he could not come home at present, containing a law paper, ma’am, making over to his son and yours some property in England.”

“Then, he is not coming?” said she.

“Not as I knowzh, ma’am.”

“He has been a long time away,” she continued.

“So I’m informed, ma’am,” he observed.

“I’ll tell you how it was, and when he went away.”<............