Thompson kindly offered to accompany me on the following morning to the inn from which I was destined to depart, but I would not hear of it. He was full of business; had little time to spare, and none to throw away upon me. I begged him not to think of it, and he acquiesced in my wishes. We were sitting together, and his wife and children had an hour or two previously retired to rest.
"Them's good children, ain't they, Stukely?" enquired Thompson, after having made a long pause.
"You may well be proud of them," I answered.
"It looked nice of 'em to make you a little present of something before you went. But it was quite right. That's just as it should be. I like that sort of thing, especially when a man understands the sperrit that a thing's given with. Now, some fellows would have been offended if any thing had been offered 'em. How I do hate all that!"
"I assure you, Thompson, I feel deeply their kind treatment of their friend. I shall never forget it."
"You ain't offended, then?"
"No, indeed."
"Well, now, I am so happy to hear it, you can't think," continued Thompson, fumbling about his breeches pocket, and drawing from it at length something which he concealed in his fist. "There, take that," he suddenly exclaimed; "take it, my old fellow, and God bless you. It's no good trying to make a fuss about it."
I held a purse of money in my hand.
"No, Thompson," I replied, "I cannot accept it. Do not think me proud or ungrateful; but I have no right to take it."