"It is right, Walter," replied the girl. "To remain here in E— would be only to suffer with us, not to help us. If it should please Heaven that you should return—if you should over come back—." She could not go on, but turned her head aside to hide the tears that would have their course.
"I will return, Nelly—if I live, I will! It is only to relieve you of a burden that I quit you. I will work hard—save hard for your sake."
At this moment a poor, gray-headed man slowly made his way up the street. He seemed almost beaten back by the pelting hail, and stopping as he reached Viner's little shop, leaned on the gate as if for support.
"Let us ask him to come in to shelter," whispered Nelly—and Walter immediately invited him to step in.
The gray-haired man obeyed in silence—with a step so faltering, a look of such emotion, as though the voice of kindness were strange to him, that the hearts of the young people were touched with compassion. They had not read in vain the injunction in the Bible—"Use hospitality without grudging: be not forgetful to entertain strangers;" but without waiting for any request from the weary man, they brought him dry clothes, asked him into the parlour, and offered him a chair by the fire.
The guest was not yet past the strength of manhood, but all its life and spirit appeared gone. His face was wrinkled, its expression sad, his hand trembled as if with age, and when he at last spoke his voice was faltering and low.
"Here is one who has drunk deep of the cup of sorrow," thought Nelly, and her manner, ever gentle, became more kindly than before.
"Shall I set food before him?" she whispered to Walter.
"By all means—he looks ready to faint."
"But, Walter—we have but a half-loaf left in the house, and our till is to-day quite empty!"