"No, I haven't. Why?"
"Oh, well; only a question. My name is Peter Jago—Pete, I used to be called."
"Yes?"
He took notice that she had said nothing of her mother's whereabouts; and concluded, rightly, that the old woman must be in the workhouse.
"Well, I'm sorry," he said. "I thought I might be able to do something for her."
The woman became attentive at last.
"Any small trifle you might think o' leavin' with me, sir, it should duly reach her. She've failed a lot, lately."
"Thank you; I'll think it over. Good-day."
He strolled back to the Pack-horse and ate his dinner. Abel Walters, coming in after with a pint of port to his order, found the Emigrant with a great packet of sugared almonds and angelica spread open beside his cheese.
"I suppose, sir," said Mr. Walters, eyeing the heap, "you've travelled a great deal in foreign parts."