You are a dear to take such becoming interest in my friend. I have a
great deal more to tell you about the lunatic, as you call him, who,
by the way, is a great deal saner than either you or I.

Well, I went last Thursday. It took me some time to find the
cottage. After much rambling I came upon it in the most secluded
part of the Common, in a slight hollow. It is a sort of double
cottage, partly thatched, standing in a good-sized garden. I marched
through a rickety gate, and made for the house door. The garden is
one wild medley of vegetables, fruit-trees, and flowers, luxuriant
still, in spite of the late season. I was just bending over a
chrysanthemum when I heard a startling "Hulloa!" and found myself
accosted by the gardener, who stood, spade in hand, at the opposite
end of the gravel walk. He was in his shirtsleeves; his corduroy
trousers were more picturesque than respectable; an enormous straw
hat, well tanned and chipped by wear, was stuck on the back of his
head.

"Hulloa!" he cried again.

I approached and asked, as soon as I could do so without shouting,
whether Miss Norton were at home.

"She is at home," replied the man, "and who may you be?"

"Perhaps you will kindly tell her," said I, making up by my civility
for his lack of it, "that Emilia Fletcher has come to see her."

Down went the spade, off came the disreputable hat.