Next proceeding to the scullery, Hartley drew a jug of beer. Walter Liddel ate as voraciously as a famished wolf.
Leaving him to enjoy the first good meal he had made for some days, Hartley went up-stairs, and his voice could be heard in consultation with his wife.
Evidently, some little preparation for their unexpected guest had to be made by the worthy couple, but it was completed before he had finished his meal. He was still engaged when Hartley reappeared.
“Glad to see you getting on so well, Mr. Liddel,” observed the stonemason. “It ain't often we've a spare bed, but it so happens that our daughter Rose is away, so you can have her room.”
“Anywhere will do for me,” replied Walter, who by this time had devoured all the meat and bread, and emptied the jug of beer.
“Come on, then,” said Hartley, taking up the candle, and signing to his guest to follow him.
A short, narrow staircase brought them to a landing, whence two or three doors opened, one of which admitted them to a small chamber, simply but very neatly furnished. It breathed an atmosphere of purity and innocence, with which Walter, exhausted as he was, could not help being struck.
“There's your bed,” said Hartley, pointing to the neat little couch, the patchwork quilt of which being turned down, revealed the snowy sheets.
“Thank you, my good friend; I couldn't wish for a better,” replied Walter, squeezing the mason's horny hand. “Heaven bless you for your kindness to me.”
“Don't disturb yourself too soon,” observed Hartley. “I'm not going out early myself to-morrow. I'll call you. Good night.”