"I was sure you were in very deep trouble, sir," replied the stranger. "I will not seek to peer into your affairs; but I deeply feel for you, and would say that many troubles are not so deep as they seem. I would hope yours are not." "Sir," replied the old man--the tears starting into his eyes, "I tell you I am a ruined man. I am heavily behind with my rent, all my stock will not suffice to pay it; and this morning we have been to entreat the steward to be lenient, but he will not hear us; he vows to sell us up next week." "That is hard," said the stranger. "But you are hale, your son is young; you can begin the world anew." "Begin the world anew!" exclaimed the old man, with a distracted air. "Where?--how? when? No, no! sir, there is no beginning anew in this country. Those days are past. That time is past with me. And as for my son: Oh, God! Oh, God! what shall become of him, for he has a wife and family, and knows nothing but about a farm." "And there are farms still," said the stranger. "Yes; but at what rentals? and, then, where is the capital?" The old man grew deadly pale, and groaned. "In this country," said the stranger, after a deep silence, "I believe these things are hard, but in mine they are not so. Go there, worthy old man; go there, and a new life yet may open to you." The stranger took the old man's hand tenderly; who, on feeling the stranger's grasp, suddenly, convulsively, caught the hand in both his own, and shedding plentiful tears, exclaimed, "God bless you, sir; God bless you for your kindness! Ah! such kindness is banished from this country, but I feel that it lives in yours--but there!--no, no!--there I shall never go. There are no means." "The means required," said the stranger, tears, too, glittering in his eyes, "are very small. Your friends would, no doubt--" "No, no!" interrupted him the old man, deeply agitated; "there are no friends--not here." "Then why should I not be a friend so far?" said the stranger. "I have means--I know the country. I have somehow conceived a deep interest in your misfortunes." "You!" said the old man, as if bewildered with astonishment; "you!--but come along with us, sir. Your words, your kindness, comfort me; at least you can counsel with us--and I feel it does me good." "I will go with all my heart," said the stranger. "You can not live far from here. I will hence to Manchester, and I can, doubtless, make it in my way." "Exactly in the way!" said the old man, in a tone of deep pleasure, and of much more cheerfulness, "at least, not out of it to signify--though not in the great highway. We can find you plenty of room, if you do not disdain our humble vehicle." "I have heavy luggage," replied the stranger, ringing the bell. "I will have a post-chaise, and you shall go in it with me. It will suit you better this wet day." "Oh no! I can not think of it, sir," said the farmer. "I fear no rain. I am used to it, and I am neither sugar nor salt. I shall not melt."