t suspecting that his
servants knew more of Midwinter's last moments at Thorpe Ambrose than he
knew himself. Not ten minutes since, the grocer and butcher had called
in to receive payment of their bills, and the grocer and the butcher had
seen how Midwinter started on his journey.

The grocer had met him first, not far from the house, stopping on his
way, in the pouring rain, to speak to a little ragged imp of a boy, the
pest of the neighborhood. The boy's customary impudence had broken out
even more unrestrainedly than usual at the sight of the gentleman's
knapsack. And what had the gentleman done in return? He had stopped
and looked distressed, and had put his two hands gently on the boy's
shoulders. The grocer's own eyes had seen that; and the grocer's own
ears had heard him say, "Poor little chap! I know how the wind gnaws and
the rain wets through a ragged jacket, better than most people who have
got a good coat on their backs." And with those words he had put his
hand in his pocket, and had rewarded the boy's impudence with a present
of a shilling. "Wrong here-abouts," said the grocer, touching his
forehead. "That's my opinion of Mr. Armadale's friend!"

The butcher had seen him further on in the journey, at the other end of
the town. He had stopped--again in the pouring rain--and this time to
look at nothing more remarkable than a half-starved cur, shivering on
a doorstep. "I had my eye on him," said the butcher; "and what do you
think he did? He crossed the road over to my shop, and bought a bit of
meat fit for a Christian. Very well. He says good-morning, and crosses
back again; and, on the word of a man, down he goes on his knees on
the wet doorstep, and out he takes his knife, and cuts up the meat, and
gives it to the dog. Meat, I tell you again, fit for a Christian! I'm
not a hard man, ma'am," concluded the butcher, addressing the cook, "but
meat's meat; and it will serve your master's friend right if he lives to
want it."

With those old unforgotten sympathies of the old unforgotten time to
keep him company on his lonely road, he had left the town behind him,
and had been lost to view in the misty rain. The grocer and the butcher
had seen the last of him, and had judged a great nature, as all natures
_are_ judged from the grocer and the butcher point of view.

THE END OF THE SECOND BOOK.

BOOK THE THIRD.

I. MRS. MILROY.

Two days after Midwinter's departure from Thorpe Ambrose, Mrs. Mil