‘And the hat ribbands match,’ said Wych Hazel, ’and the gloves.  And the veil is a shade lighter.  Everything matches everything, and everything matches me.  You never saw my match before, did you Mrs. Saddler?’

‘Dear me!  Miss Hazel,’ said the good woman again.  ’You do talk so wonderful!’

It was splendid to see her look of dismay, and amusement, and admiration, all in one, and to catch a glimpse of the other face—­fun and mischief and beauty, all in one too!  To put on the new dress, to fit on the new gloves,—­Wych Hazel went down to Mr. Falkirk in admirable spirits.

Mr. Falkirk looked gloomy.  As indeed anything might, in that hall; with the front door standing open, and one lamp burning till day should come; and the chill air streaming in.  Mr. Falkirk paced up and down with the air of a man prepared for the worst.  He shook Wych Hazel grimly by the hand, and she laughed out,

‘How charming it is, sir?  But where’s breakfast?’

‘Breakfast, Miss Hazel,’ said her guardian solemnly, ’is never, so far as I can learn, taken by people setting out to seek their fortune.  It is generally supposed that such people rarely have breakfast at all.’

’Very well, sir,—­I am ready,’—­and in another minute they were on their way, passing through the street of the little village, and then out on the open road, until after a half-hour’s drive they entered another small settlement and drew up before its chief inn.  Bustle enough here,—­lamps in the hall and on the steps; lamps in the parlours; lamps running up and down the yards and road and dimly disclosing the outlines of a thorough bred stage coach and four horses, with the various figures pertaining thereto.  Steadily the dawn came creeping up; the morning air—­raw and damp—­floated off the horses’ tails, and flickered the lights, and even handled Wych Hazel’s new veil.  I think nothing but the new travelling dress kept her from shivering, as they went up the inn steps.  People seeking their fortunes may at least want their breakfast.

But Mr. Falkirk was perverse.  As they entered the hall, a waiter threw open the door into the long breakfast room—­ delicious with its fire and lights and coffee—­(neither did the voices sound ill), but Mr. Falkirk stopped short.

’Is that the only fire you’ve got?  I want breakfast in a private room.’

Now Mr. Falkirk’s tone was sometimes one that nobody would think of answering in words,—­of course, the waiter could do nothing but wheel about and open another door next to the first.

‘Ah!’ Mr. Falkirk said with immense satisfaction, as they stepped in.

’Ah!’—­repeated his ward rather mockingly.  ’Mr. Falkirk, this room is cold.’

Mr. Falkirk took the poker and gave the fire such a punch that it must have blazed uninterruptedly for half a day after.

‘Cold, my dear?’ he said beamingly—­’no one can be cold long before such a fire as that.  And breakfast will be here in a moment.  If it comes before I get back, don’t wait for me.  How well your dress looks!’