"Depends upon that ere letter," replied the cripple with circumspection. "If it was to tell me what to do to better myself I'd go and fetch it were it at the other end of the country."
"But," said Meg, with a quivering voice, letting out the secret fear at her heart, "suppose there was no letter waiting for you when you got to the place?"
"I'd go and look for the one as should ha' written it everywhere. I'd not give over till I found him," said the cripple.
"You would!" said Meg.
"I would!" repeated the boy.
"I wish you were going all the way to London," said Meg.
"To take care of you?" asked the lad. "Wish I could, but I can't, miss. I have the kid and the mistress to think of. It's not so far; to-morrow you'll get there."
"To-morrow!" repeated Meg, aghast.
"It's getting late," said the boy, "ye can't walk in the night. Now, what I say is, if ye find a barn, creep in there and lie in the straw; but if ye can get a hayrick and cover yerself all up to yer head, that's fit for a king—better than a bed. I've slept in 'em, so I ought to know."
Meg could not speak from consternation; the prospect for a moment overwhelmed her.