Another picture rises in my mind: I am in a great clean place of many beds, and I am ill. They talk of want and exposure, and then try to find out who I am, and whether I have any friends. I remember one thing, and one only: that my name is "Tinman"; I am glad to think that I have no friends, and that it may happen that this is the end of my poor life, and that I may finish here in peace. But the spring comes, and with the spring some stirring of life in my veins. I am so much better that I surprise them all; although they cannot understand why I refer to myself, over and over again, as "No. 145." I beg that they will call me that, because it is what I have been for twenty years. And I ask again and again that the governor will not send me out into a world that I have forgotten, and where I know no one. But the spring in my blood fights for me, after all; and I am presently free, and a little grateful, perhaps, to be able to sit in the sun, and watch the great glad life of a great glad city all about me. And this is the last of the pictures--for all the rest is dear reality. I remember that, as I grew stronger, a sudden passion of longing came upon me, and drew me inevitably to the woods and the fields I had known so long before, in a certain summer time, and had known later with the snow upon them, and the chill winds of winter blowing over them. The sun warmed me to life almost as if I had renewed my youth, so that I found myself one day--poor shabby old creature that I was--with my feet set steadily upon the road that led to Hammerstone Market, and with my eager eyes searching the landscape before me to catch the first glimpse of it. I was weaker than I had imagined, and it took me nearly two days to get to it. But I came to it at last, on a bright spring morning--came into the familiar bustle of the little country town, with the market-place just as it had always been, and the _George Hotel_ as comfortable-looking as ever, with its doors thrown hospitably wide open. I was tired and faint after my long tramp, and I found in a corner of a pocket in my shabby clothes a sixpence. I went into the place, and ordered some bread and cheese and ale. There seemed some excitement about the _George_ that morning. There was an air of every one being in their best clothes; there was a young coachman there, in particular, who was obviously smoking an unusual cigar, and who had a white favour fastened to the lapel of his coat. There was another coachman also, more elderly and staid; and the two men were talking with the landlord. I passed unnoticed--a mere shabby stranger, taking his modest refreshment in the corner. "Well, an' it won't be half a bad thing to see the old place livened up a bit," the landlord was saying. "They do say that the young chap 'as come into a tidy bit o' money since 'is 'alf-brother was drowned in that wreck--a very tidy bit o' money indeed. Well--well--that's the way o' the world: 'ere to day an' gorn to-morrow."