"If I give you your supper, and a night's lodging in the barn, will you promise not to smoke?" he said. "I want no fire."
The derelict smiled in spite of his hunger and weariness.
"I've neither pipe nor tobacco, sir," he said. "I wish I had. But if I had I'd keep my word to you."
The farmer stared at him fixedly for a moment; then he pointed to the gate.
"Come through that," he said. He strode off across the garden when the derelict entered, and led the way round the house to the kitchen, where a stout maid was sewing at the open door. She looked up at the sound of their feet and stared.
"Give this man as much as he can eat, Rachel," said the farmer, "and draw him a pint of ale. Sit you down," he added, turning to the derelict. "And make a good supper."
Then he picked up the child, who had clung to his coat, and lifting her on to his shoulder, went back to the garden.
The derelict ate and drank and thanked God. A new sense of manhood came into him with the good meat and drink; he began to see possibilities. When at last he stood up he felt like a new man, and some of the weary stoop had gone out of his shoulders.
The farmer came in with a clay pipe filled with tobacco.
"Here," he said, "you can sit in the yard and smoke that. And then I'll show you where you can sleep."