“Excuse me, captain—­but the young lady seems to hang a little on your mind,” said the landlord, with a pleasant smile.

Mr. Kirke looked as if the form which his host’s good-humor had just taken was not quite to his mind.  He returned abruptly to the subaltern officer and the regiment in Canada.  “That poor fellow’s story was as miserable a one as ever I heard,” he said, looking back again absently at the visitors’ list.

“Would there be any harm in telling it, sir?” asked the landlord.  “Miserable or not, a story’s a story, when you know it to be true.”

Mr. Kirke hesitated.  “I hardly think I should be doing right to tell it,” he said.  “If this man, or any relations of his, are still alive, it is not a story they might like strangers to know.  All I can tell you is, that my father was the salvation of that young officer under very dreadful circumstances.  They parted in Canada.  My father remained with his regiment; the young officer sold out and returned to England, and from that moment they lost sight of each other.  It would be curious if this Vanstone here was the same man.  It would be curious—­”

He suddenly checked himself just as another reference to “the young lady” was on the point of passing his lips.  At the same moment the landlord’s wife came in, and Mr. Kirke at once transferred his inquiries to the higher authority in the house.

“Do you know anything of this Mr. Vanstone who is down here on the visitors’ list?” asked the sailor.  “Is he an old man?”

“He’s a miserable little creature to look at,” replied the landlady; “but he’s not old, captain.”

“Then he’s not the man I mean.  Perhaps he is the man’s son?  Has he got any ladies with him?”

The landlady tossed her head, and pursed up her lips disparagingly.

“He has a housekeeper with him,” she said.  “A middle-aged person—­not one of my sort.  I dare say I’m wrong—­but I don’t like a dressy woman in her station of life.”

Mr. Kirke began to look puzzled.  “I must have made some mistake about the house,” he said.  “Surely there’s a lawn cut octagon-shape at Sea-view Cottage, and a white flag-staff in the middle of the gravel-walk?”

“That’s not Sea-view, sir!  It’s North Shingles you’re talking of.  Mr. Bygrave’s.  His wife and his niece came here by the coach to-day.  His wife’s tall enough to be put in a show, and the worst-dressed woman I ever set eyes on.  But Miss Bygrave is worth looking at, if I may venture to say so.  She’s the finest girl, to my mind, we’ve had at Aldborough for many a long day.  I wonder who they are!  Do you know the name, captain?”

“No,” said Mr. Kirke, with a shade of disappointment on his dark, weather-beaten face; “I never heard the name before.”

After replying in those words, he rose to take his leave.  The landlord vainly invited him to drink a parting glass; the landlady vainly pressed him to stay another ten minutes and try a cup of tea.  He only replied that his sister expected him, and that he must return to the parsonage immediately.