"Listen to me, my dear mother," said Leonard the next morning, as with his knapsack on his shoulder and Mrs. Fairfield on his arm, he walked along the high road; "I do assure you, from my heart, that I do not regret the loss of favors which I see plainly would have crushed out of me the very sense of independence. But do not fear for me; I have education and energy--I shall do well for myself, trust me. No; I can not, it is true, go back to our cottage--I can not be a gardener again. Don't ask me--I should be discontented, miserable. But I will go up to London! That's the place to make a fortune and a name: I will make both. O yes, trust me, I will. You shall soon be proud of your Leonard; and then we will always live together--always! Don't cry." "But what can you do in Lunnon--such a big place, Lenny?" "What! Every year does not some lad leave our village, and go and seek his fortune, taking with him but health and strong hands? I have these, and I have more: I have brains, and thoughts, and hopes, that--again I say, No, no--never fear for me!" The boy threw back his head proudly; there was something sublime in his young trust in the future. "Well--But you will write to Mr. Dale, or to me? I will get Mr. Dale, or the good Mounseer (now I know they were not agin me) to read your letters." "I will, indeed!" "And, boy, you have nothing in your pockets. We have paid Dick; these, at least, are my own, after paying the coach fare." And she would thrust a sovereign and some shillings into Leonard's waistcoat pocket. After some resistance, he was forced to consent. "And there's a sixpence with a hole in it. Don't part with that, Lenny; it will bring thee good luck." Thus talking, they gained the inn where the three roads met, and from which a coach went direct to the Casino. And here, without entering the inn, they sate on the green sward by the hedge-row, waiting the arrival of the coach. Mrs. Fairfield was much subdued in spirits, and there was evidently on her mind something uneasy--some struggle with her conscience. She not only upbraided herself for her rash visit; but she kept talking of her dead Mark. And what would he say of her, if he could see her in heaven? "It was so selfish in me, Lenny." "Pooh, pooh! Has not a mother a right to her child?" "Ay, ay, ay!" cried Mrs. Fairfield. "I do love you as a child--my own child. But if I was not your mother after all, Lenny, and cost you all this--oh, what would you say of me then?" "Not my own mother!" said Leonard, laughing, as he kissed her. "Well, I don't know what I should say then differently from what I say now--that you who brought me up, and nursed and cherished me, had a right to my home and my heart, wherever I was." "Bless thee!" cried Mrs. Fairfield, as she pressed him to her heart. "But it weighs here--it weighs"--she said, starting up.