he bench; and nodded to her to proceed.

'These have been scraped together and laid by, lest sickness or death
should separate my son and me. They have been purchased at the price of
much hunger, hard labour, and want of rest. If you CAN take them--do--on
condition that you leave this place upon the instant, and enter no more
into that room, where he sits now, expecting your return.'

'Six guineas,' said the blind man, shaking his head, 'though of the
fullest weight that were ever coined, fall very far short of twenty
pounds, widow.'

'For such a sum, as you know, I must write to a distant part of the
country. To do that, and receive an answer, I must have time.'

'Two days?' said Stagg.

'More.'

'Four days?'

'A week. Return on this day week, at the same hour, but not to the
house. Wait at the corner of the lane.'

'Of course,' said the blind man, with a crafty look, 'I shall find you
there?'

'Where else can I take refuge? Is it not enough that you have made
a beggar of me, and that I have sacrificed my whole store, so hardly
earned, to preserve this home?'

'Humph!' said the blind man, after some consideration. 'Set me with my
face towards the point you speak of, and in the middle of the road. Is
this the spot?'

'It is.'

'On this day week at sunset. And think of him within doors.--For the
present, good night.'

She made him no answer, nor did he stop for any. He went slowly away,
turning his head from time to time, and stopping to listen, as if he
were curious to know whether he was watched by any one. The shadows of
night were closing fast around, and he was soon lost in the gloom. It
was not, however, until she had traversed the lane from end to end,
and made sure that he was gone, that she re-entered the cottage, and
hurriedly barred the door and window.

'Mother!' said Barnaby. 'What is the matter? Where is the blind man?'

'He is gone.'

'Gone!' he cried, starting up. 'I must have more talk with him. Which
way did he take?'

'I don't know,' she answered, folding her arms about him. 'You must not
go out to-night. There are ghosts and dreams abroad.'

'Ay?' said Barnaby, in a frightened whisper.

'It is not safe to stir. We must leave this place to-morrow.'

'This place! This cottage--and the little garden, mother!'

'Yes! To-morrow morning at sunrise. We must travel to London; lose
ourselves in that wide place--there would be some trace of us in any
other town--then travel on again