'I wunna stay along of him!'

Vessons looked at her interestedly. Apparently she also was a devotee
of his religion--celibacy; one who dared to go against the explicit
decrees of nature.

'I think the better of you,' he said. 'So he's had his trouble for
nothing,' he chuckled. 'You can have my room. You shanna say Andrew
Vessons inna a man of charitable nature. Never shall you! There's a key
to it.'

He led the way to his room through the back door and up the kitchen
stairs.

Most people would have suffered anything rather than sleep in the room
he revealed when he proudly flung the door open. He had the recluse's
love of little possessions and daily comforts.

On an upturned box by the bed were his clay pipe, matches, a treacle-tin
containing whisky, and some chicken-bones. He usually kept a few bones
to pick at his ease. A goldfinch with a harassed air occupied a wooden
cage in the window, and the mantelpiece was fitted up with white mice in
home-made cages. It seemed quite a pleasant room to Hazel.

'Mind as you're very careful of all my things,' said Vessons wistfully.
'I hanna slep away from this room for nigh twenty year. That bird's
ne'er slep without me. He'll miss me. He unna sing for anybody else.'
He always asserted this, and the bird always belied it by singing to
Reddin and any chance visitor. But Vessons continued to believe it.
There are some things that it is necessary to believe; doubt of them