“No. But you may depend on it that Miss Winter will be your friend. My dear fellow, there is nothing for it but time.”
“Well, I suppose not,” said Tom, with a groan. “Do you think I should call and see Katie?”
“No; I think better not.”
“Well, then, we may as well get back,” said Tom, who was not sorry for his friend's decision. So they paid their bill and started for home, taking the Hawk's Lynch on the way, that Hardy might see the view.
“And what did you find out about young Winburn?” he said as they passed down the street.
“Oh, no good,” said Tom; “he was turned out, as I thought, and has gone to live with an old woman on the heath here, who is no better than she should be; and none of the farmers will employ him.
“You didn't see him, I suppose?”
“No, he is away with some of the heath people, hawking besoms and chairs about the country. They make them when there is no harvest work, and loaf about in Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire, and other counties, selling them.”
“No good will come of that sort of life, I'm afraid.”
“No, but what is he to do?”