“To Great Castleborough, sir, if God give me strength.”
“To Castleborough!” exclaimed Mr. Spires, “why you seem ready to drop; you’ll never reach it. You’d better stop at the next village.”
“Ay, sir, it is easy stopping for those who have money.”
“And you’ve none, eh?”
“As God lives, sir, I’ve a sixpence, and that’s all.”
Mr. Spires put his hand in his pocket and held out to her the next instant half-a-crown.
“There, stop, poor thing—make yourself comfortable—it’s quite out of the question to reach Castleborough. But stay, are your friends living in Castleborough? What are you?”
“A poor soldier’s widow, sir: and may God Almighty bless you,” said the poor woman, taking the money, the tears standing in her large brown eyes as she curtseyed very low.
“A soldier’s widow,” said Mr. Spires. She had touched the softest place in the manufacturer’s heart, for he was a very loyal man, and vehement champion of his country’s honour in the war. “So young,” said he,—“how did you lose your husband?”
“He fell, sir,” said the poor woman,—but she could get no further; she suddenly caught up the corner of her grey cloak, covered her face with it, and burst into an excess of grief.