He opened the door of his house and bade her follow him.
She entered a room which was heated by a clear coal stove, and that was why no smoke ever rose from his chimney. It was lighted by an oil lamp suspended from the ceiling, while huge oaken shutters, and a baize edging to the foot of the door, prevented a gleam of light from penetrating abroad.
The walls and floor were hidden by books; a table in the centre was covered with papers, and with instruments of a kind which she had never seen before.
He trimmed the lamp, and sat down, leaning his face on his hand. He seemed to be lost in thought, but all this while his eyes were bent upon her—his eyes full of sorrow and compassion.
Under other circumstances, the woman would have been frightened, and, as it was, she was not without certain misgivings; she was in the lone habitation of a forlorn and mysterious man.
She was surprised at his pensive attitude, and his singular silence, which appeared to her to be almost preternatural.
“Ah, sir, you already know my errand,” said she in a beseeching tone. Do not keep me in suspense. If you can do anything in respect to my poor boy, I feel assured you will not deny me the favour I ask.”
“If I can. Ah,” murmured the recluse, “does it not strike you as being a little remarkable that you should seek the assistance of a poor old hermit like myself? I have no home, woman—am poor—and, I may say, dispised. How can I serve you?”
“I want to find my boy—he who, years ago, was at Stoke Ferry farmhouse.”
“From which place he ran away?”