CHAPTER X.
Dr.Howe, with no thought of Mr.Forsythe's unceremonious call at the rectory, had gone home with Mr.Denner.

"One needs a walk," he said, "after one of Miss Deborah's dinners.

Bless my soul, what a housekeeper that woman is!" "Just so," said Mr.Denner, hurrying along at his side,--"just so.

Ah--it has often occurred to me." And when the rector had left him at his white gateway between the Lombardy poplars, Mr.Denner went into his library, and after stumbling about to light his lamp, and stirring his fire to have a semblance, at least, of cheer, he sat down and meditated further on this subject of Miss Deborah's housekeeping.
It was a dreary room, with lofty ceilings and few and narrow windows.

The house was much lower than the street, and had that piercing chill of dampness which belongs to houses in a hollow, and the little gentleman drew so close to the smouldering fire that his feet were inside the fender.
He leaned forward, and resting his elbows on his knees, propped his chin on his hands, and stared at the smoke curling heavily up into the cavernous chimney, where the soot hung long and black.