A week passed away, and the widow was laid to rest beneath the frozen ground in the little churchyard by the banks of the river. Archie went slowly back with Bob towards the cottage. On their way thither, the poacher—poacher now no more though—entered a plantation, and with his hunting-knife cut and fashioned a rough ash stick.
"We'll say good-bye here, Master Archie."
"What! You are not going back with me to Burley Old Farm?"
Bob took a small parcel from his pocket, and opening it exposed the contents.
"Do you know them, Master Archie?"
"Yes, your poor mother's glasses."
"Ay, lad, and as long as I live I'll keep them. And till my dying day, Archie, I'll think on you, and your kindness to poor poacher Bob. No, I'm not goin' back to Burley, and I'm not going to the cottage again. I'm going away. Where? I couldn't say. Here, quick, shake hands, friend. Let it be over. Good-bye."
"Good-bye."
And away went Bob. He stopped when a little way off, and turned as if he had forgotten something.
"Archie!" he cried.