In another minute he was devouring the cold
meat, cheese, and bread, that had been placed on the table at his
side.
"You'm little changed these four years," went on the old man, in a
voice that sounded to Stoner as something in a dream, far away and
inconsequent; "but you'll find us a deal changed, you will.
There's no one about the place same as when you left; nought but
me and your old Aunt. I'll go and tell her that you'm come; she
won't be seeing you, but she'll let you stay right enough. She
always did say if you was to come back you should stay, but she'd
never set eyes on you or speak to you again."
The old man placed a mug of beer on the table in front of Stoner
and then hobbled away down a long passage. The drizzle of rain
had changed to a furious lashing downpour, which beat violently
against door and windows. The wanderer thought with a shudder of
what the sea-shore must look like under this drenching rainfall,
with night beating down on all sides. He finished the food and
beer and sat numbly waiting for the return of his strange host.
As the minutes ticked by on the grandfather clock in the corner a
new hope began to flicker and grow in the young man's mind; it was
merely the expansion of his former craving for food and a few
minutes' rest into a longing to find a night's shelter under this
seemingly hospitable roof.
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