He experiences a feeling of relief when, after more than an hour has passed, he observes a change in her movements. She throws on her hat hurriedly, and passes out of the house. The lad follows her at a distance. She does not know that she has forgotten her cloak, and she heeds not the snow. The fire burning within her warms her with a terrible, dangerous warmth. To all external impressions she seems to be absolutely dead. She walks for a mile into the village, and enters a stationer's shop, where the post-office is kept. "Have you any letters for me?" she asks. She is evidently known to the woman behind the counter, who replies with small courtesy, "There is nothing for you." Nelly holds out her hand with eager imploring. She has not heard the answer. "I told you there are no letters," says the woman. "I beg your pardon," sighs Nelly, humbly; and looking round the shop, as though to find some other excuse for having entered, picks up a paper, pays for it, and retraces her steps home. Home! Alas! The stable-lad follows her and is presently aware that somebody is following _him_. It is a man, and the lad turns and confronts him. The stranger takes no notice of the lad, and strives to pass. "Where are you pushing to?" cries the lad, being himself the obstructive party. "Out of my way, my lad," says the man, adding under his breath, "I must not lose her now." "What are you following that lady for?" demands the lad. The question is answered by another. "You have something to do with her, then?" "I should think I have." "I want to know where she lives. I am a friend of hers." "She wants 'em, I should say--badly." This remark is made after a keen observance of the stranger's face. It is a well-looking, honest, ruddy face, and the examination appears to satisfy the lad. "Wants what?" asks the stranger. "Friends." "I thought she had--rich ones." "If she had," answers the lad, "and mind, I don't say she hadn't--if she had, she hasn't got 'em now." "Ah," says the stranger, drawing a deep breath, "he has left her, then. Poor Nelly!" The last two words, uttered with feeling, and in a low tone not intended to be heard, reach the lad's sharp ears, and dispose him still more favourably towards the stranger. "Look here," he blurts out, "are you a gentleman?" "Does that mean, am I rich?" The lad looks dubious, not being quite sure. "Am I a gentleman?" continues the stranger. "That's as it may be. Every true man is a gentleman; every gentleman is not a true man." The lad grins. Some understanding of the aphorism penetrates his uneducated mind. "Best ask me if I'm a true man, my lad." "Well, then, are you?" "I think so. So far as regards that lady, I am sure so."