turning, rung the bell, ordered the breakfast-
things from his table, and producing a writing-
case, sate down to write letters. He continued
writing, pausing at intervals, and looking
steadily before him as in deep thought, for
about an hour, when the door opened, and the
Peak farmer and his son again entered. They
were in their wet and steaming great coats.
The old man appeared pale and agitated; bade
the son see that the horse was put in the cart,
rung the bell, and asked what he had to pay.
Having discharged his bill, he continued to
pace the room, as if unconscious of the stranger,
who had suspended his writing, and was gazing
earnestly at him. The old man frequently
paused, shook his head despairingly, and
muttered to himself, "Hard man!—no fellow
feeling!—all over!—all over!" With a
suppressed groan, he again continued his pacing
to and fro.

The stranger arose, approached the old man,
and said, with a peculiarly sympathising tone,

"Excuse me, Sir, but you seem to have some
heavy trouble on your mind; I should be glad
if it were anything that were in my power to
alleviate."

The old man stopped suddenly—looked
sternly at the stranger—seemed to recollect
himself, and said rather sharply, as if feeling
an unauthorised freedom—"Sir!"

"I beg pardon," said the stranger. "I am
aware that it must seem strange in me to
address you thus; but I cannot but perceive
that something distresses you, and it might
possibly happen that I might be of use to
you."

The old man looked at him for some time
in silence, and then said—

"I forgot any one was here; but you can
be of no manner of use to me. I thank you."

"I am truly sorry for it; pray excuse my
freedom," said the stranger with a slight flush;
"but I am an American, and we are more
accustomed to ask and communicate matters
than is consistent with English reserve. I beg
you will pardon me."

"You are an American?" asked the old
man, looking at him. "You are quite a stranger
here?"

"Quite so, Sir," replied the stranger, with
some little embarrassment. "I was once in
this country before, but many years ago."

The old man still looked at him, was silent
awhile, and then said—"You cannot help me,
Sir; but I thank you all the same, and
heartily. You seem really a very feeling man,
and so I don't mind opening my mind to you—
I am a ruined man, Sir."

"I was sure you were in very deep trouble,
Sir," replied the stranger. "I will not seek to
peer into your affairs; but I deeply feel for
you, and would say that many troubles are not
so deep as they seem. I would hope yours
are not."

"Sir," replied the old man—the tears starting
into his eyes—"I tell you I am a ruined
man. I am heavily behind with my rent,—
all my stock will not suffice to pay it; and this
morning we have been to entreat the steward
to be lenient,—but he will not hear us; he
vows to sell us up next week."

"That is hard," said the stranger. "But
you are hale,—your son is young; you can
begin the world anew."

"Begin the world anew!" exclaimed the
old man, with a distracted air. "Where?—
how?—when? No, no! Sir,—there is no
beginning anew in this country. Those days are
past. That time is past with me. And as
for my son: Oh, God! Oh, God! what shall
become of him, for he has a wife and family,
and knows nothing but about a farm."

"And there are farms still," said the
stranger.

"Yes; but at what rentals?—and, then,
where is the capital?"

The old man grew deadly pale, and groaned.

"In this country," said the stranger, after a
deep silence, "I believe these things are hard,
but in mine they are not so. Go there, worthy
old man; go there, and a new life yet may
open to you."

The stranger took the old man's hand
tenderly; who, on feeling the stranger's grasp,
suddenly, convulsively, caught the hand in
both his own, and shedding plentiful tears,
exclaimed, "God bless you, Sir; God bless
you for your kindness! Ah! such kindness
is banished from this country, but I feel that
it lives in yours—but there!—no, no!—there
I shall never go. There are no means."

"The means required," said the stranger,
tears, too, glittering in his eyes, "are very
small. Your friends would, no doubt—"

"No, no!" interrupted him the old man,
deeply agitated; " there are no friends—not
here."

"Then why should I not be a friend, so
far?" said the stranger. "I have means—I
know the country. I have somehow conceived
a deep interest in your misfortunes."

"You!" said the old man, as if bewildered
with astonishment; "you!—but come along
with us, Sir. Your words, your kindness,
comfort me; at least you can counsel with
us—and I feel it does me good."

"I will go with all my heart," said the
stranger. "You cannot live far from here. I
will hence to Manchester, and I can, doubtless,
make it in my way."

"Exactly in the way!" said the old man,
in a tone of deep pleasure, and of much more
cheerfulness, "at least, not out of it to signify
—though not in the great highway. We can
find you plenty of room, if you do not disdain
our humble vehicle."

"I have heavy luggage," replied the
stranger, ringing the bell. "I will have a
post-chaise, and you shall go in it with me.
It will suit you better this wet day."

"Oh no! I cannot think of it, Sir," said
the farmer. "I fear no rain. I am used to
it, and I am neither sugar nor salt. I shall
not melt."