“Trotwood,” said Mr. Dick, with an air of mystery, after imparting this confidence to me, one Wednesday; “who’s the man that hides near our house and frightens her?”

“Frightens my aunt, sir?”

Mr. Dick nodded. “I thought nothing would have frightened her,” he said, “for she’s⁠—” here he whispered softly, “don’t mention it⁠—the wisest and most wonderful of women.” Having said which, he drew back, to observe the effect which this description of her made upon me.

“The first time he came,” said Mr. Dick, “was⁠—let me see⁠—sixteen hundred and forty-nine was the date of King Charles’s execution. I think you said sixteen hundred and forty-nine?”

“Yes, sir.”