looked big enough to be his mother, and young enough to be his
daughter--stood talking in the hall, and I could hear every word they
said.

[Illustration: "ON MY RIGHT A LIGHTED DOORWAY"]

"It's of no use for him to try to dry himself," she said, "for he's
wet to the bone. He must change his clothes, and hang those he's got
on before the fire."

"Change his clothes!" exclaimed the man. "How ever can he do that?
I've nothing that'll fit him, and of course he has brought nothing
along with him."

"Never you mind," said she. "Something's got to be got. Take him into
the little chamber. And don't consider the floor; that can be wiped
up."

She came into the kitchen and spoke to me. "You must come and change
your clothes," she said. "You'll catch your death of cold, else.
You're the school-master from Walford, I think, sir? Indeed, I'm sure
of it, for I've seen you on your wheel."

Smiling at the idea that through the instrumentality of my bicycle I
had been making myself known to the people of the surrounding
country, I followed the man into a small bed-chamber on the
ground-floor.

"Now," said he, "the quicker you get off your wet clothes and give
yourself a good rub-down the better it will be for you. And I'll go