I answered it was only seventy-one miles, and two shillings would be sufficient, as I could walk more than thirty-five miles a day, I had no knapsack to carry, and a shilling per day would do for me. There my feelings overpowered me, and he, seeing my emotion, turned himself round to the fire-place, evidently affected; then, facing me again, said, “Tut, tut! a brave soldier should not mind a little poverty;” for at this time I could not answer him; then, ringing the bell, the footman who was in attendance came into the room, “Tell the cook,” said he, “to get a good dinner ready for a gallant soldier.” Then, putting a chair towards me, in a friendly manner told me to sit down, and began conversing familiarly. He asked a number of questions concerning the Peninsular war; but we were shortly interrupted by the servant, informing him dinner was ready. “Go, now,” said he, “and take some refreshment.” But, alas! my appetite was gone; I could have eaten a donkey before, but now I could not break bread. The servants, observing me so discomposed, went and informed the Colonel of it, when he came to me himself, tapping me on the shoulder, saying, “Come, come, make a good dinner,” then, turning to the servant, ordered him to bring a bottle of wine. After my repast he again returned, accompanied by a lady, perhaps his wife or daughter, to whom he had probably been speaking of me, and who may have felt curious to see the rough soldier who had gone through so memorable a campaign. He now slipped some twelve half-crowns into my hand, and desired me on no account to walk, but to take coach to London; at the same time he presented me my papers. I thanked him, but requested he would keep them until I could return the money. “No, no;” he replied, “I make you a present of it.” He then, in a very kind manner said, “Your old Colonel, Colonel Barnard, is made a General, and a Knight. He is now Major-General Sir Andrew Barnard; and, if you wish it, I will write to him about you.” Again I thanked him, and said, “The Colonel is well acquainted with me.” I left the house with feelings of gratitude which I could not give utterance to; and never, although many years have passed, shall I forget the kindness of Colonel Ford. On my return to London I wrote to Augustine, but received no answer. I waited with anxiety, and then came the mournful intelligence of her death; most likely owing to her father, as he remained inexorable to the last. Poor Augustine! Peace be to thy memory! CHAPTER XXVI.