“Ye’ll ’ave to look sharp,” said he, “or no one won’t take ye in to-night.” She was shivering in the bitter air, and she could walk but slowly; still she walked alone. He moved a few steps beside her, then stopped. A sudden instinct that he could not have defined bade him send her on her way alone. “Ye’ll do now,” said he, “won’t ye? Them’s the cottages—up there to yer right. You knock at the first door—there’s an old woman lives there—she used to be mother’s chum. She’d take ye in, if ’twas for nothing, but that ... if she only knowed....” Nat blushed, and he was not in the habit of blushing, and stammered as he was not in the habit of stammering, for he did not know how to finish his sentence. “Well, anyways ye’ve got the money,” concluded he, “and if it comes to that—there’s a ‘public’ at Hoo where they lets out beds. So you look sharp.” “Good-night; and thank ye,” said the girl. “Good-night,” answered he. “I shan’t forget what you done for me,” said she. “Oh, stow that,” he said. He watched her as she moved slowly along: watched her till she had turned up the lane to the cluster of cottages, and waited to see if she would come back on it. He put his hand in his pocket to feel for his pipe and matches; the matches were gone, and he remembered that he had used them to light the fire—yonder in his old home, on the hearth where his mother had been wont to boil the pot for his supper. He turned and looked again. The trail of smoke from the old chimney was thinner and fainter—but it was still there—ascending softly and steadily. His heart was lighter at the sight of it, and he whistled gently to himself. The girl had not reappeared; she must be housed and safe by now. He set his face back whence he had come, and went on his way content. A little bird twittered pitifully in the frost-bound hedge as he passed. He searched for the place and found it; it was dying of cold and hunger. He put it in his warm bosom within his coat; he thought that he would feed it when he got in, and that perhaps he might bring it back to life. THE END _Richard Clay & Sons, Limited, London & Bungay._ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ THE MANXMAN BY HALL CAINE _In One Volume, price 6s._ =The Times.=—‘With the exception of _The Scapegoat_, this is unquestionably the finest and most dramatic of Mr. Hall Caine’s novels ... _The Manxman_ goes very straight to the roots of human passion and emotion. It is a remarkable book, throbbing with human interest.’