“It’s because of the frost, my boy!” she said. “It would be the death of you to sleep out of doors to-night!”
“It’s a nice place for it, ma’am!”
“To sleep in? Certainly not!”
“I didn’t mean that, ma’am. I meant a nice place to go away from—to die in, ma’am!”
“That is not ours to choose,” answered the old lady severely, but the tone of her severity trembled.
“I sha’n’t find anywhere so nice as this bank,” said Clare, turning and looking at it sorrowfully.
“There are plenty of places in the town. It’s but a mile farther on!”
“But this is so much nicer, ma’am! And I’ve no money—none at all, ma’am. When I came out of prison,—”
“Came out of where?”
“Out of prison, ma’am.”