“Awfully tired, Sir.” “And are you going far to night?” “To Great Stockington, Sir, if God give me strength.” “To Stockington!” exclaimed Mr. Spires. “Why you seem ready to drop. You’ll never reach it. You’d better stop at the next village.” “Ay, Sir, it’s easy stopping, for those that have money.” “And you’ve none, eh?” “As God lives, Sir, I’ve a sixpence, and that’s all.” Mr. Spires put his hand in his pocket, and held out to her the next instant, half-a-crown. “There stop, poor thing—make yourself comfortable—it’s quite out of the question to reach Stockington. But stay—are your friends living in Stockington—what are you?” “A poor soldier’s widow, Sir. And may God Almighty bless you!” said the poor woman, taking the money, the tears standing in her large brown eyes as she curtsied very low. “A soldier’s widow,” said Mr. Spires. She had touched the softest place in the manufacturer’s heart, for he was a very loyal man, and vehement champion of his country’s honour in the war. “So young,” said he, “how did you lose your husband?” “He fell, Sir,” said the poor woman; but she could get no further; she suddenly caught up the corner of her grey cloak, covered her face with it, and burst into an excess of grief. The manufacturer felt as if he had hit the woman a blow by his careless question; he sate watching her for a moment in silence, and then said, “Come, get into the gig, my poor woman; come, I must see you to Stockington.” The poor woman dried her tears, and heavily climbed into the gig, expressing her gratitude in a very touching and modest manner. Spires buttoned the apron over her, and taking a look at the child, said in a cheerful tone to comfort her, “Bless me, but that is a fine thumping fellow, though. I don’t wonder you are tired, carrying such a load.” The poor woman pressed the stout child, apparently two years old, to her breast, as if she felt it a great blessing and no load: the gig drove rapidly on. Presently Mr. Spires resumed his conversation. “So you are from Stockington?” “No Sir, my husband was.” “So: what was his name?” “John Deg, Sir.” “Deg?” said Mr. Spires. “Deg, did you say?” “Yes, Sir.” The manufacturer seemed to hitch himself off towards his own side of the gig, gave another look at her, and was silent. The poor woman was somewhat astonished at his look and movement, and was silent too. After awhile Mr. Spires said again, “And do you hope to find friends in Stockington? Had you none where you came from?” “None Sir, none in the world!” said the poor woman, and again her feelings seemed too strong for her. At length she added, “I was in service, Sir, at Poole, in Dorsetshire, when I married; my mother only was living, and while I was away with my husband, she died. When—when the news came from abroad—that—when I was a widow, Sir, I went back to my native place, and the parish officers said I must go to my husband’s parish lest I and my child should become troublesome.”