“Well, anyways ye’ve got the money,” concluded he, “and if it comes to that—there’s a ‘public’ at Hoo where they lets out beds. So you look sharp.”
“Good-night; and thank ye,” said the girl.
“Good-night,” answered he.
“I shan’t forget what you done for me,” said she.
“Oh, stow that,” he said.
He watched her as she moved slowly along: watched her till she had turned up the lane to the cluster of cottages, and waited to see if she would come back on it.
He put his hand in his pocket to feel for his pipe and matches; the matches were gone, and he remembered that he had used them to light the fire—yonder in his old home, on the hearth where his mother had been wont to boil the pot for his supper.
He turned and looked again.
The trail of smoke from the old chimney was thinner and fainter—but it was still there—ascending softly and steadily.
His heart was lighter at the sight of it, and he whistled gently to himself.