But he was wrong: there was no room for me, I was told by a weird-looking, lean, white-haired old woman with whity-blue unfriendly eyes.

She appeared to resent it that any one should ask for accommodation at such a time, when the "shooting gents" from town required all the rooms available.

Well, I had to sleep somewhere, I told her: couldn't she direct me to a cottage where I could get a bed?
No, she couldn't--it is always so; but after the third time of asking she unfroze so far as to say that perhaps they would take me in at a cottage close by.

So I went, and a poor kind widow who lived there with a son consented to put me up.

She made a nice fire in the sitting-room, and after warming myself before it, while watching the firelight and shadows playing on the dim walls and ceiling, it came to me that I was not in a cottage, but in a large room with an oak floor and wainscoting.