'You shall have a slice of roast beef, whether you want it or not,' said the warden, ringing the bell at his own back-door. 'I recognize the cloak now--the young scamp! How soon he has made it shabby, though,' he continued, taking up a corner where there was an immense tear not too well botched up. 'And so you were on board the _Theseus_ at the time of the explosion? Bring some cold meat here for the good man--or stay! Come in with me, and then you can tell Mrs. Pennington and the young ladies all you know about Harry,--and the siege,--and the explosion.' So Philip was ushered into the warden's house and made to eat roast beef almost against his will; and he was questioned and cross-questioned by three eager ladies, all at the same time, as it seemed to him. He had given all possible details on the subjects about which they were curious; and was beginning to consider how he could best make his retreat, when the younger Miss Pennington went up to her father--who had all this time stood, with his hat on, holding his coat-tails over his arms, with his back to the fire. He bent his ear down a very little to hear some whispered suggestion of his daughter's, nodded his head, and then went on questioning Philip, with kindly inquisitiveness and patronage, as the rich do question the poor. 'And where are you going to now?' Philip did not answer directly. He wondered in his own mind where he was going. At length he said, 'Northwards, I believe. But perhaps I shall never reach there.' 'Haven't you friends? Aren't you going to them?' There was again a pause; a cloud came over Philip's countenance. He said, 'No! I'm not going to my friends. I don't know that I've got any left.' They interpreted his looks and this speech to mean that he had either lost his friends by death, or offended them by enlisting. The warden went on, 'I ask, because we've got a cottage vacant in the mead. Old Dobson, who was with General Wolfe at the taking of Quebec, died a fortnight ago. With such injuries as yours, I fear you'll never be able to work again. But we require strict testimonials as to character,' he added, with as penetrating a look as he could summon up at Philip. Philip looked unmoved, either by the offer of the cottage, or the illusion to the possibility of his character not being satisfactory. He was grateful enough in reality, but too heavy at heart to care very much what became of him. The warden and his family, who were accustomed to consider a settlement at St Sepulchre's as the sum of all good to a worn-out soldier, were a little annoyed at Philip's cool way of receiving the proposition. The warden went on to name the contingent advantages. 'Besides the cottage, you would have a load of wood for firing on All Saints', on Christmas, and on Candlemas days--a blue gown and suit of clothes to match every Michaelmas, and a shilling a day to keep yourself in all other things. Your dinner you would have with the other men, in hall.'