"You are a plucky girl," said Hardy; "but I think you are attempting more than you understand. You talk, for instance, of going to the workhouse. You are the last girl in the world to go to the workhouse. Think of dying in a workhouse," he continued, whilst she watched him without smiling. "Creatures bend over your bed, and say, 'Isn't she gone yet?' That's the sympathy of the workhouse."
"I want to get out of England, abroad, and be independent," said Julia.
He looked at an old clock upon the mantelpiece. The hour was about eight. He asked her if she would have some whisky and water, and on her declining, he mixed a draught for himself, then went to the door and called to Bax, leaving the girl to wonder what he meant to do. The farmer arrived.
"Bax," said the sailor, "you have given us a capital supper."
"I'm much obliged to you, sir," answered Bax.
"This is an excellent whisky," continued Hardy, "and I drink your health"—here he sipped—"and the health of your worthy daughter"—here he sipped again—"in your very hospitable gift."
Bax grinned, and said, "We make no charge. You're my guests, and you're welcome."
"Bax," said Hardy, "haven't you a spring cart?"
"Yes," answered Bax.