"I am afraid it is broken," she said gently. "Let me bind it for you."
She took out her handkerchief; it was a gossamer trifle—fine cambric and lace—quite useless for the purpose required. She turned to Claude and asked for his. The request was a small one, but the whole afterpart of her life was affected by it. She did not notice that Claude's handkerchief was marked with his name in full—"Claude Lennox." She bound carefully the wounded hand.
"Now," she said, "be advised by us; go away—don't let your husband find you."
"Go to London," cried Claude eagerly; "there is always work to be done and money to be earned there. See—I will give you my address. You can write to me; and I will ask my aunt or my mother to give you employment."
He tore a leaf from his pocket-book and wrote on it; "Claude Lennox, 200 Belgrave Square, London."
He looked very handsome, very generous and noble, as he gave the folded note to the woman, with two sovereigns inside it.
"Remember," he said, "that I promise my mother will find you some work if you will apply to us."
She thanked him, but no ray of hope came to her poor face. She did not seem to think it strange that they were there—that it was unusual at that early hour to see such as they were out in the fields.
"Heaven bless you!" she said gratefully. "A dying woman's blessing will not hurt you."
"You will not die," said Claude cheerily; "you will be all right in time. Do you belong to this part?"