"Who is it?"
"I don't know, your reverence."
"Is 't a priest?"
"No, but I think he's a gintleman," she whispered. "He talks like the people up at the great house."
She got a candle, and I read:—
Rev. Edward Letheby, B. A., C. C.
"'T is the new curate," I said.
"Oyeh," said Hannah, whose dread and admiration for the "strange gintleman" evaporated, when she found he was a mere curate.
I went out and welcomed with what warmth I could my new coöperator. It was too dark for me to see what manner of man he was; but I came to some rapid conclusions from the way he spoke. He bit off his words, as riflemen bite their cartridges, he chiselled every consonant, and gave full free scope to every vowel. This was all the accent he had, an accent of precision and determination and formalism, that struck like a knell, clear and piercing on my heart.
"I took the liberty of calling, Sir," he said, "and I hope you will excuse my troubling you at such an unseasonable hour; but I am utterly unacquainted with the locality, and I should be thankful to you if you would refer me to a hotel."