A clattering of footsteps down the
passage heralded the old farm servant's return.
"The old missus won't see you, Master Tom, but she says you are to
stay. 'Tis right enough, seeing the farm will be yours when she
be put under earth. I've had a fire lit in your room, Master Tom,
and the maids has put fresh sheets on to the bed. You'll find
nought changed up there. Maybe you'm tired and would like to go
there now."
Without a word Martin Stoner rose heavily to his feet and followed
his ministering angel along a passage, up a short creaking stair,
along another passage, and into a large room lit with a cheerfully
blazing fire. There was but little furniture, plain, old-
fashioned, and good of its kind; a stuffed squirrel in a case and
a wall-calendar of four years ago were about the only symptoms of
decoration. But Stoner had eyes for little else than the bed, and
could scarce wait to tear his clothes off him before rolling in a
luxury of weariness into its comfortable depths. The hounds of
Fate seemed to have checked for a brief moment.
In the cold light of morning Stoner laughed mirthlessly as he
slowly realized the position in which he found himself.
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