"You know your way? The room on the right of the landing."

"Yes. I know my way, thanks, sir," Tom answered--

And, thus dismissed, went on upstairs, carrying the silver flat
candlestick, while his shadow, black on the panelled wall, mounted beside
him grotesquely prancing step by step.

The furnishing of his room was of a piece with all below, solid yet not
uncomely. It included a four-post bed of generous proportions, hangings,
curtains and covers of chintz, over which faded purple and crimson roses
were flung broadcast on a honey-yellow ground. The colourings were
discreetly cheerful, the atmosphere not unpleasantly warm, the quiet,
save for the creaking of a board as he crossed the floor, unbroken.
Outwardly all invited to peaceful slumber. And Tom felt more than ready
to profit by that invitation this last night on shore, last night in
England. His attention had been upon the stretch for a good many hours
now, since that--after all rather upsetting--good-bye to home and family
at Canton Magna, following an early and somewhat peripatetic breakfast.
Notwithstanding his excellent health and youthful energy, mind and body
alike were somewhat spent. He made short work of preparation, slipped in
between the fine cool linen sheets, and laid his brown head upon the soft
billowing pillows, impatient neither to think nor feel any more but
simply to sleep.

For some two hours or so he did sleep, though not without phantasmagoria
queerly disturbing. The sweep of his visions was wide, ranging from that
redoubtable county lady, Harriet Cowden _née_ Verity--first cousin of his
father, the Archdeacon, and half-sister to his host--in her violet-ink
hued gown, to fury of internecine strife amid the mountain fastnesses of