But the spring comes, and with the spring some stirring of life in my veins. I am so much better that I surprise them all; although they cannot understand why I refer to myself, over and over again, as "No. 145." I beg that they will call me that, because it is what I have been for twenty years. And I ask again and again that the governor will not send me out into a world that I have forgotten, and where I know no one.
But the spring in my blood fights for me, after all; and I am presently free, and a little grateful, perhaps, to be able to sit in the sun, and watch the great glad life of a great glad city all about me. And this is the last of the pictures—for all the rest is dear reality.
I remember that, as I grew stronger, a sudden passion of longing came upon me, and drew me inevitably to the woods and the fields I had known so long before, in a certain summer time, and had known later with the snow upon them, and the chill winds of winter blowing over them. The sun warmed me to life almost as if I had renewed my youth, so that I found myself one day—poor shabby old creature that I was—with my feet set steadily upon the road that led to Hammerstone Market, and with my eager eyes searching the landscape before me to catch the first glimpse of it.
I was weaker than I had imagined, and it took me nearly two days to get to it. But I came to it at last, on a bright spring morning—came into the familiar bustle of the little country town, with the market-place just as it had always been, and the George Hotel as comfortable-looking as ever, with its doors thrown hospitably wide open. I was tired and faint after my long tramp, and I found in a corner of a pocket in my shabby clothes a sixpence. I went into the place, and ordered some bread and cheese and ale.
There seemed some excitement about the George that morning. There was an air of every one being in their best clothes; there was a young coachman there, in particular, who was obviously smoking an unusual cigar, and who had a white favour fastened to the lapel of his coat. There was another coachman also, more elderly and staid; and the two men were talking with the landlord. I passed unnoticed—a mere shabby stranger, taking his modest refreshment in the corner.
"Well, an' it won't be half a bad thing to see the old place livened up a bit," the landlord was saying. "They do say that the young chap 'as come into a tidy bit o' money since 'is 'alf-brother was drowned in that wreck—a very tidy bit o' money indeed. Well—well—that's the way o' the world: 'ere to day an' gorn to-morrow."
"I mind 'er mother—Lord knows 'ow many year ago, when I was a young chap," said the elder coachman, rolling his cigar between his lips—"an' you take my word for it, if this young lady ain't the very stuck image of 'er. I've only got to shut my eyes, an' I can see the child now—just so like the mother as ever was. And both of 'em with the same names, mind you. Miss Barbara then, an' Miss Barbara now."
I listened wonderingly; I began dimly to understand. Coming a little nearer to them, I ventured to put a question, and they answered me respectfully enough.
"There is to be a wedding to-day?"