"No," she replied; "we are quite strangers here. I do not even know the name of the place. We were going to walk to Liverpool; my husband thought he should get better wages there."
"Take my advice," said Claude earnestly—"leave him; let him go his own road. Travel to London, and get a decent living for yourself there."
"I will think of it," she said wearily; and then a vague unconsciousness began to steal over her face.
"You are tired," said Hyacinth gently; "lie down and sleep again. Good-by." The birds were singing gayly when they turned to leave her.
"Stay," said Claude; "what is your name?"
"Anna Barratt," she replied; and only Heaven knows whether those were the last words she spoke.
[CHAPTER VIII.]
The woman laid her weary head down again as one who would fain rest, and they walked away from her.
"We have done a good deed," said Claude thoughtfully; "saved that poor woman from being murdered, perhaps. I hope she will do what I advised—start for London. If my mother should take a fancy to her, she could easily put her in the way of getting her living."