After lighting with his own hands the faggots which were
heaped upon the hearth, old John withdrew to hold grave council with his
cook, touching the stranger's entertainment; while the guest himself,
seeing small comfort in the yet unkindled wood, opened a lattice in the
distant window, and basked in a sickly gleam of cold March sun.
Leaving the window now and then, to rake the crackling logs together,
or pace the echoing room from end to end, he closed it when the fire was
quite burnt up, and having wheeled the easiest chair into the warmest
corner, summoned John Willet.
'Sir,' said John.
He wanted pen, ink, and paper. There was an old standish on the
mantelshelf containing a dusty apology for all three. Having set this
before him, the landlord was retiring, when he motioned him to stay.
'There's a house not far from here,' said the guest when he had written
a few lines, 'which you call the Warren, I believe?'
As this was said in the tone of one who knew the fact, and asked the
question as a thing of course, John contented himself with nodding his
head in the affirmative; at the same time taking one hand out of his
pockets to cough behind, and then putting it in again.
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