The old man's son approached simultaneously
with the waiter, to say that the cart
was ready. The stranger ordered a post-
chaise to accompany the farmer, at which the
son stood with an open-mouthed astonished
stare, which would have excited the laughter
of most people, but did not move a muscle of
the stranger's grave and kindly face.

"This good gentleman will go with us,"
said the old man.

"Oh, thank you, Sir!" said the son, taking
off his hat and making a low bow, "you are
heartily welcome; but it's a a poor place,
Sir."

"Never mind that," said the old man.
"Let us be off and tell Millicent to get some
dinner for the gentleman."

But the stranger insisted that the old man
should stay and accompany him in the chaise,
and so the son walked off to prepare for their
coming. Soon the stranger's trunks were
placed on the top of the chaise, and the old
man and he drove off.

Their way was for some time along the
great highroad; then they turned off to the
left, and continued their course up a valley till
they ascended a very stony road, which wound
far over the swell of the hill, and then approached
a large grey stone house, backed by
a wood that screened it from the north and
east. Far around, lay an immense view, chiefly
of green, naked, and undulating fields,
intersected by stone walls. No other house was
near; and villages lying at several miles
distant, naked and grey on the uplands, were
the only evidences of human life.

The house was large enough for a gentleman's
abode, but there were no neatly kept
walks; no carefully cultivated shrubberies;
no garden lying in exquisite richness around
it. There was no use made of the barns and
offices. There were no servants about. A
troop of little children who were in the field
in front, ran into the house and disappeared.

On entering the house, the stranger
observed that its ample rooms were very naked
and filled only by a visible presence of stern
indigence. The woodwork was unpainted.
The stone floors were worn, and merely
sanded. The room into which he was
conducted, and where the table was already laid
for dinner, differed only in having the
uncarpeted floor marked in figures of alternating
ochre and pipe-clay, and was furnished with a
meagre amount of humblest chairs and heavy
oak tables, a little shelf of books and almanacs,
and a yellow-faced clock. A shabby and
tired-looking maid-servant was all the
domestics seen within or without.

Joe, the simple-looking son, received them,
and the only object which seemed to give a
cheering impression to the stranger, was
Joe's wife, who presented herself with a deep
curtsey. The guest was surprised to see in her
a very comely, fresh-coloured, and modestly
sensible woman, who received him with a
kindly cordiality and native grace, which
made him wonder how such a woman could
have allied herself to such a man. There
were four or five children about her, all
evidently washed and put into their best
for his arrival, and who were pictures of
health and shyness.

Mrs. Warilow took off the old man's great
coat with an affectionate attention, and drew
his plain elbow chair with a cushion covered
with a large-patterned check on its rush
bottom, towards the fire; for there was a fire,
and that quite acceptable in this cold region
after the heavy rain. Dinner was then
hastily brought in; Mrs. Warilow apologising
for its simplicity, from the short notice she
had received, and she might have added from
the painful news which Joe brought with
him; for it was very evident, though she
had sought to efface the trace of it, by copious
washing, that she had been weeping.

The old man was obviously oppressed by
the ill result of his morning's journey to the
steward, and the position of his affairs. His
daughter-in-law cast occasional looks of
affectionate anxiety at him, and endeavoured to
help him in such a manner as to induce him
to eat; but appetite he had little. Joe
played his part as valiantly as in the morning;
and the old man occasionally rousing from
his reverie, again renewed the observation of
the breakfast-table.

"Joe, lad, thou eats nothing;" adding too
now, "Milly, my dear, thou eats nothing.
You eat nothing, Sir. None of you have any
appetite, and I have none myself. God
help me!"

An ordinary stranger would scarcely have
resisted a smile—none appeared on the face
of the guest.

After dinner they drew to the fire, which
consisted of large lumps of coal burning
under a huge beamed chimney. There a little
table was set with spirits and home-made
wine, and the old man and Joe lit their pipes,
inviting the stranger to join, them, which he
did with right good will. There was little
conversation, however; Joe soon said that
he must go over the lands to see that the
cattle was all right; he did more, and even
slept in his chair, and the stranger proposed
to Mrs. Warilow a walk in the garden, where
the afternoon sun was now shining warmly.
In his drive hither in the chaise, he had
learned the exact position of the old farmer.
He was, as he had observed, so heavily in
arrear of rent, that his whole stock would
not discharge it. When they had seated
themselves in the old arbour, he communicated
his proposal to her father-in-law to
remove to America; observing, that he had
conceived so great a sympathy for him, that
he would readily advance him the means of
conveying over the whole family.

Mrs. Warilow was naturally much
surprised at the disclosure. Such an offer from a
casual stranger, when all friends and family
connections had turned a deaf ear to all