inch, everything in the house jarred and rattled. We were sitting
round the fire, uncle and Lilian and me, us with our knitting and
him asleep in his newspaper, and nobody could have gone to sleep
with a wind like that but a man who has been bred and born at sea,
or on the South Downs.

Lilian and I were talking over our new winter dresses, when there
come a knock at the side door, not nigh so loud as some of the
noises the wind made, but not being used to it, uncle sat up, wide
awake, and said, 'Hark!' In a minute it come again, and then I went
to the door and opened it a bit. There was some one outside who
began to speak as soon as he saw the light, but I could not hear
what he said for the roaring of the wind, and the cracking of the
trees outside.

'Shut that door!' uncle shouted from the parlour. 'Let the dog in,
whatever he is, and let him tell his tale this side the oak.'

So I let him in and shut the door after him, and I had better have
shut to the lid of my own coffin after me.

Him that I let in was dripping wet, and all spent with fighting the
wind on these Downs, where it is like a lion roaring for its prey,
and will go nigh to kill you, if you fight it long enough. He leaned
against the wall and said--

'I have lost my way, and I have had a nasty fall. I think there is
something wrong with my arm--hollow--slip--light--hospitality beg
your pardon, I'm sure,' and with that he fainted dead off on the
cocoanut matting at my feet.