bread," she said, after a pause; "but we can't take in a vagrant to lodge. It isn't likely."
"Do let me speak to your mistresses."
"No; not I. What can they do for you? You should not be roving about now: it looks very ill."
"But where shall I go if you drive me away? What shall I do?"
"Oh, I'll warrant you know where to go, and what to do. Mind you don't do wrong, that's all. Here is a penny; now go———."
"A penny cannot feed me, and I have no strength to go farther. Don't shut the door!—oh, don't, for God's sake!"
"I must; the rain is driving in———."
"Tell the young ladies.—Let me see them—."
"Indeed I will not. You are not what you ought to be, or you wouldn't make such a noise. Move off!"
"But I must die if I am turned away."
"Not you. I'm feard you have some ill plans agate, that bring you about folk's houses at this time o' night. If you've any followers—housebreakers or such like—anywhere near, you may tell them we are not by ourselves in the house: we have a gentleman, and dogs, and guns." Here the honest but inflexible servant clapped the door to and bolted it within.
This was the climax. A pang of exquisite suffering—a throe of true despair—rent and heaved
