"And you," replied Caleb gallantly, "are a-lookin' so sweet as
blossom. Here's a gentlem'n come to call upon 'ee, my dear.
An' how's Peter an' Paul? Brave, I hopes."

"Both, thank you, Caleb," said the maiden, curtseying without
embarrassment to Mr. Fogo. "Won't you come in, sir?"

It was noticeable that Mr. Fogo at this point became very nervous,
but he crossed the threshold in answer to this invitation.
Mr. Trotter followed.

The fragrant smoke of a wood fire filled the room in which Mr. Fogo
found himself. It was a rude kitchen, with white limeash floor, and
for ceiling, a few whitewashed beams and the planching of the bedroom
above. All was scrupulously clean. In the flickering obscurity of
the chimney depended a line of black pot-hooks and hangers; a trivet
and a pair of bellows furnished the hearth; from the capacious rack
hung a rich stock of hams and sides of bacon, curing in the smoke; an
English clock stood in one corner, a tall cupboard in another, and a
geranium in the window-seat. Along the side opposite the door, and
parallel to a dresser of shining crockery, ran a strong deal table.
Some high-backed chairs, a pair of brass candlesticks with snuffers,
a book or two, a few old hats, and a lanthorn, on various pegs,
completed the furniture of the place.

But Mr. Fogo's gaze was riveted on two men who rose together at his
entrance from the table where they were seated, side by side, at
their tea.