"A great and marvellous change indeed," he continued, with some increase of dignity in his manner and in his mode of speech. "A change which would affect me also, though that would be of little avail now. But as regards my granddaughter, she might be called upon to fill a position very different from that she occupies at present; and I should not wish her to be hampered by anything pertaining to her former manner of life. Not that she would ever prove forgetful of past kindness; that is not in her nature; but in these new circumstances she might find herself confronted by other duties. Enough said, I hope, on that point. And well I know," he added, with something of a grand air, "that in whatever sphere Maisrie Bethune may be placed, she will act worthily of her name and of the obligations it entails." He suddenly paused. There was a poorly-clad woman going by, carrying in one arm a baby, while with the other hand she half dragged along a small boy of five or six. She did not look like a professional London beggar, nor yet like a country tramp; but of her extreme wretchedness there could be no doubt; while there was a pinched look as of hunger in her cheeks. "Wait a bit!—where are you going?" old George Bethune said to her, in blunt and ready fashion. The woman turned round startled and afraid. "I am making for home, sir," she said, timidly. "Where’s that?" he demanded. "Out Watford way, sir—Abbot’s Langley it is." "Where have you come from?" "From Leatherhead, sir." "On foot all the way?" "Yes, indeed, sir," she said, with a bit of a sigh. "And with very little food, I warrant?" said he. "Little indeed, sir." "Have you any money?" "Yes, sir—a matter of a few coppers left. I gave what I had to my old mother—she thought she was dying, and sent for me to bring the two little boys to see her—but she’s better, sir, and now I’m making for home again." "Oh, you gave what you had to your mother? Well," said he, deliberately, "I don’t know whether what I have will amount to as much, but whatever it is you are welcome to it." He dived into his trousers pockets and eventually produced about half a handful of shillings and pence; then he searched a small waistcoat-pocket and brought forth two sovereigns. It was all his wealth. "Here, take that, and in God’s name get yourself some food, woman!" said he, unconsciously lapsing into a pronounced Scotch accent. "You look starved. And this bit of a laddie, here—buy him some sweet things as well as bread and butter when you get up to the shops. And then when you’re outside the town, you’ll just give some honest fellow a shilling, and you’ll get a cast of an empty cart to help you on your road. Well, good-day to ye—no, no, take what there is, I tell ye, woman!—bless me, you’ll need most of it before you get to your own fireside. On your ways, now!—and when you reach the shops, don’t forget the barley-sugar for this young shaver."