It was like the palace Miss Anne had spoken of, for he could not understand half the things that were in the room; only he saw a fire burning in a low grate, the bars of which shone like silver, and upon the carpeted hearth beside it was a sofa, where a young lady was lying, and near to it was a breakfast-table, at which an elderly gentleman was seated alone.

He was a very keen, shrewd-looking man, and very pleasant to look at when he smiled; and he smiled upon Stephen, as he stood awe-struck and speechless at his own daring in coming to speak to such a gentleman, and in such a place as this.
'So you are Stephen Fern, of Fern's Hollow,' said Mr.Lockwood; 'I remember christening you, and giving you my own name, thirteen or fourteen years since, isn't it?
Your mother had been my faithful servant for several years; and she brought you all across the hills to Danesford to be christened.

Is she well--my good Sarah Moore ?' 'Mother died four years ago, sir,' murmured Stephen, unable to say any more.
'Poor boy!' said the young lady on the sofa.

'Father, is there anything we can do for him ?' 'That is what I am going to hear, my child,' replied Mr.Lockwood.
'Stephen has not come over the hills without some errand.

Now, my boy, speak out plainly and boldly, and let me hear what has brought you to your mother's old master.' Thus encouraged, Stephen, with the utmost simplicity and frankness, though with fewer words than Martha would have put into the narrative, told Mr.Lockwood the whole history of his life; to which the clergyman listened with ever-increasing interest, as he noticed how the boy was telling all the truth, and nothing but the truth, even to his joining Black Thompson in poaching.