He had ridden far, and was weak and weary.
The rain poured down in torrents, and the night was so dark he could scarcely see ten yards before him.
Fearful of losing his way, he determined to call and enquire at a cottage close by.
He knocked at the door loudly with his riding whip, and the door was opened by an aged woman.
“What do you want, kind sir?” she asked.
“My way to Darlington.”
“The right-hand road, sir, is the nearest,”
“Do you know Miller Harmer?.”
“I do.”
“And his daughter?”