It was during one of these Easter walks, when seeking for a resting-place for the night, that we met with another adventure worth telling.
We had got to that best part of Surrey not yet colonized by wealthy men from the City, but where all things are as they were of old, when, late in the day, we came to a pleasant straggling village with one street a mile long.

Here we resolved to stay, and walked the length of the street making inquiries, but were told by every person we spoke to that the only place we could stay at was the inn--the "White Hart." When we said we preferred to stay at a cottage they smiled a pitying smile.

No, there was no such place.

But we were determined not to go to the inn, although it had a very inviting look, and was well placed with no other house near it, looking on the wide village green with ancient trees shading the road on either side.
Having passed it and got to the end of the village, we turned and walked back, still making vain inquiries, passing it again, and when once more at the starting-point we were in despair when we spied a man coming along the middle of the road and went out to meet him to ask the weary question for the last time.

His appearance was rather odd as he came towards us on that blowy March evening with dust and straws flying past and the level sun shining full on him.