“So you are from Stockington?”
“No, sir; my husband was.”
“So: what was his name?”
“John Deg, sir.”
“Deg?” said Mr. Spires. “Deg, did you say?”
“Yes, sir.”
The manufacturer seemed to hitch himself off towards his own side of the gig, gave another look at her, and was silent. The poor woman was somewhat astonished at his look and movement, and was silent too.
After awhile Mr. Spires said again, “And do you hope to find friends in Stockington? Had you none where you came from?”
“None, sir, none in the world!” said the poor woman, and again her feelings seemed too strong for her. At length she added, “I was in service, sir, at Poole, in Dorsetshire, when I married; my mother only was living, and while I was away with my husband, she died. When—when the news came from abroad—that—when I was a widow, sir, I went back to my native place, and the parish officers said I must go to my husband’s parish, lest I and my child should become troublesome.”
“You asked relief of them?”