"Here we are at—now, what is that name, my lad?"
"Miss Zeba Osterhaus, sir."
"Oh, yes! I believe I could remember it if I could once see it spelled, however"—
The rest of his sentence was broken off by the sharp jangle of the bell above the door, as Morton opened it; and the warning note brought Miss Zeba herself from an inner room.
Whatever of fun had been dancing in the young man's eyes suddenly died out at the sight of her. She was small, like a little child, but had the wan, drawn, yet sweet-looking face of a middle-aged woman, while between her shoulders she bore that fleshy symbol of Christian's burden, that painful affliction, that almost intolerable deformity for a woman to endure, a hump back.
Instantly the young man's hat was off, and the young man's voice grew almost tender, as he said,—
"We beg pardon for disturbing you, but is this Miss Osterhaus?"
"Yes, sir," she responded, with a quaint little old-time courtesy, directed with much precision, so as to include the three adults, beginning with the lady.
"And have you a spare room, or two; do you ever take in strangers for a few days?"
"Sometimes, sir, when they do be gentlefolk, like you," with a smiling little nod; "a lone woman can't be too keerful."