Before long the girl returned, and led Stephen through many winding and
twisting passages, more puzzling than the roads in the pit, to a large,
grand room, with windows down to the ground, and looking out upon a
beautiful flower-garden. It was like the palace Miss Anne had spoken of,
for he could not understand half the things that were in the room; only
he saw a fire burning in a low grate, the bars of which shone like
silver, and upon the carpeted hearth beside it was a sofa, where a young
lady was lying, and near to it was a breakfast-table, at which an elderly
gentleman was seated alone. He was a very keen, shrewd-looking man, and
very pleasant to look at when he smiled; and he smiled upon Stephen, as
he stood awe-struck and speechless at his own daring in coming to speak
to such a gentleman, and in such a place as this.

'So you are Stephen Fern, of Fern's Hollow,' said Mr. Lockwood; 'I
remember christening you, and giving you my own name, thirteen or
fourteen years since, isn't it? Your mother had been my faithful
servant for several years; and she brought you all across the hills
to Danesford to be christened. Is she well--my good Sarah Moore?'

'Mother died four years ago, sir,' murmured Stephen, unable to say any
more.

'Poor boy!' said the young lady on the sofa. 'Father, is there anything
we can do for him?'

'That is what I am going to hear, my child,' replied Mr. Lockwood.
'Stephen has not come over the hills without some errand. Now, my boy,
speak out plainly and boldly, and let me hear what has brought you to
your mother's old master.'