"Why, I did not like to stop and listen, mother," said the poor deformed boy; "but I thought it could not be all right; and, therefore, I made up my mind that I would tell Stephen, or Captain Hayward, or somebody; for that Mr. Beauchamp, who has turned out a lord, was always very kind to me when he was at the inn, and gave me many a shilling; and I should not like to do them any harm, if I can stop it; and I could see they were wonderfully bitter against him, by the way of that lady and her husband." "He is not her husband," said Widow Lamb, with a scoff; "but that matters not, Bill; you are a good boy, and have done quite right; and, perhaps, it may save much mischief; so that will be a comfort to you, my son. I'll tell Stephen all about it, when he comes back; and we'll talk the thing over together this very night, and see what can be done. It is strange, very strange, Billy, how things turn out in this world. Great people do not always know, when they do a kind action to poor people and humble people like ourselves, that they may be helping those, who will have the best means of helping them again. Now, from what you have told me, Bill, I may have the means of helping this good lord from getting himself into a terrible scrape. I am sure he does not know all, my boy; I am sure a great number of things have been concealed from him; and your telling me may set it all to rights." "Well, that's pleasant," answered the deformed boy. "It makes one very lightsome, mother, to feel that one has been able to do any thing to serve so good a gentleman; and so I shall go home quite gay." "That you may, Bill," replied his mother; "but bring me up news of any thing you may hear; for you can't tell what may be of consequence, and what may not." The boy promised to obey, and went away whistling one of the peculiar melodies, of which he was so fond; in which, though the air was gay, there was ever an occasional tone of sadness, perhaps proceeding from a profound, though concealed, impression of melancholy regarding his corporeal infirmities. It was late in the evening before Stephen Gimlet returned; but then Widow Lamb entered into instant consultation with him upon what she had heard; and their conference lasted far on into the night. The next morning early the gamekeeper got his breakfast, and then putting on his hat, said, "Now, I'll go, Goody Lamb. I shall be very awkward about it, I dare say, but I don't mind; for he will find out in the end, that it is for his own good I talk to him about such disagreeable things. So, here goes." "You had better wait awhile, Stephen," said the widow; "most likely he is not up yet; for it is not seven o'clock." "It will be well nigh eight before I am there," answered Stephen Gimlet, "and I can wait at the house till he is ready."