told the story of that awful night, a story which the author will tell
in her own words rather than in those of the dying man, who introduced a
great deal of matter irrelevant to the case.




CHAPTER XII.

THE STORY.


Forty years or more before the night of which we write, there had come
to Allington a peddler, whose home was across the sea, in Carnarvon,
Wales. He was a little, cross eyed, red-haired, wiry man, with a blunt,
sharp way of speaking, but was very popular with the citizens of
Allington, to whom he sold such small articles as he could conveniently
carry in a bundle upon his back; needles, pins, thread, pencils,
matches, thimbles, cough lozengers, Brandreth's pills, handkerchiefs,
ribbons, combs, and sometimes Irish laces and Balbriggans formed a part
of his heterogeneous stock, which was varied from time to time to suit
the season, or the wants of his customers.

Very close at a bargain, and very saving of his money, he seldom stopped
at the hotel, but passed the night at the houses of his acquaintances,
who frequently made no charge for his meals or his lodgings. Especially
was this the case at the farm-house where the peddler, whose name was
Joel Rogers, was always welcome, and where he usually staid when in
Allington. Between Peter Jerrold and the peddler there was a strong
friendship, and the two often sat into the small hours of the night,