“The situation is fine, too,” said Herbert, looking about him admiringly.
The cottage stood on a knoll. On either side were tall and stately trees. A purling brook at the left rolled its silvery current down a gentle declivity, and in front, for half a mile, was open country.
“I have a great mind to call and inquire who lives here.” said Melville. “Perhaps we can arrange to stay here all night.”
“That is a good plan, Mr. Melville.”
George Melville dismounted from his horse, and, approaching, tapped with the handle of his whip on the door.
“Who's there?” inquired a smothered voice, as of one rousing himself from sleep.
“A stranger, but a friend,” answered Melville.
There was a sound as of some one moving, and a tall man, clad in a rough suit, came to the door, and looked inquiringly at Melville and his boy companion.
Though his attire was rude, his face was refined, and had the indefinable air of one who would be more at home in the city than in the country.
“Delighted to see you both,” he said, cordially, offering his hand. “I don't live in a palace, and my servants are all absent, but if you will deign to become my guests I will do what I can for your comfort.”