We had returned from a ride. Romayne had gone into the library to
read; and I was just leaving the stables, after a look at some recent
improvements, when a pony-chaise with a gentleman in it drove up to the
door. He asked politely if he might be allowed to see the house. There
were some fine pictures at Vange, as well as many interesting relics of
antiquity; and the rooms were shown, in Romayne's absence, to the very
few travelers who were adventurous enough to cross the heathy desert
that surrounded the Abbey. On this occasion, the stranger was informed
that Mr. Romayne was at home. He at once apologized--with an appearance
of disappointment, however, which induced me to step forward and speak
to him.

"Mr. Romayne is not very well," I said; "and I cannot venture to ask you
into the house. But you will be welcome, I am sure, to walk round the
grounds, and to look at the ruins of the Abbey."

He thanked me, and accepted the invitation. I find no great difficulty
in describing him, generally. He was elderly, fat and cheerful;
buttoned up in a long black frockcoat, and presenting that closely
shaven face and that inveterate expression of watchful humility about
the eyes, which we all associate with the reverend personality of a
priest.

To my surprise, he seemed, in some degree at least, to know his way
about the place. He made straight for the dreary little lake which I
have already mentioned, and stood looking at it with an interest which
was so incomprehensible to me, that I own I watched him.

He ascended the slope of the moorland, and entered the gate which led