"No master, sir," returned the officious lad, following me. "The master be a missus, sir. Here she come."
"What's your pleasure?" said a very pretty woman, about thirty years of age, advancing from an inner room. She was dressed in widow's weeds, which became her very fair face amazingly, and led by the hand a rosy, curly-headed urchin, whose claims to general admiration were by no means contemptible. The mother and her lovely boy would have made a charming picture; and I forgot, while contemplating the originals, that I was wet and hungry.
With the quickness of her sex, Mrs. Archer perceived that she had made a favourable impression on her new guest. And putting back the luxuriant curls from the white brow of her boy, she remarked, with a sigh:
"He's young to be an orphan—poor child!"
"He is, indeed," I replied, kissing the little fellow, as I spoke; "and his mother far too young and pretty to remain long a widow."
"La! sir; you don't say so," said Mrs. Archer, smiling and blushing most becomingly. "And you standing all this while in the drafty, cold passage in your wet clothes. You can have a private room and a fire, sir."
"And a good supper, I hope," said I, laughing. "I have ridden fifty miles to-day, and I feel desperately hungry."
"You shall have the best the house affords. Pray, walk this way."
I followed my conductress into a neat little room. A fat country girl was on her knees before the grate striving to kindle the fire; but the wood was wet, and in spite of the girl's exertions, who was supplying with her mouth the want of a pair of bellows, the fire refused to burn.
"It's of no manner of use: no it isn't," said the girl. "I may blow till I bust, an' it won't kindle."