h enthusiasm, as the dilapidated travesty
of a coat shook itself free. "Quiet and unobtrusive to the last degree.
Parisian in colour and simplicity. And mole colour is so becoming. Can
you really spare it? Then with the moreen petticoat I am provided,
equipped."

We went back to the kitchen again.

"What will you do with them?" I said, pointing to her convict clothes
which had dried perfectly stiff, owing to the amount of mud on them. How
such quantities of mud could have got on to them was a mystery to me.

"It certainly does not improve one's clothes, to hide in a wet ditch in
a ploughed field," she said meditatively. "I will dispose of them early
to-morrow morning. I picked a place as I found my way here."

"Not on _my_ premises?" I said anxiously.

"Of course not. Do you take me for a monster of ingratitude? I'll manage
that all right."

I suddenly remembered that she must have food to take with her. I went
to the larder, and when I came back I looked at her with renewed
amazement.

My dressing-gown and slippers were laid carefully on a chair. The
astonishing woman was a tramp once more, squatting on the brick floor,
drawing on to her bare feet the shapeless excuses for boots which had
been toasting before the fire.

Then she leaned over the hearth, rubbed her hands in the ashes, and
passed them gently over her face, her neck, her wrists and ankles. She
drew forward and tangled her hair before the kitchen glass. Then she
rolled up her convict clothes into a compact bundle, wiped her right
hand carefully on the kitchen towel, and held it out to me.

"Remember," I said gravely, taking it in both of mine and pressing it,
"if ever you are in need of a friend, you know to whom to apply. Marion
Dalrymple, Rufford, will always find me."

I thought I ought not to let her go away without letting her know who I
was. But my name seemed to have no especial meaning for her. Perhaps she
had lived beyond the pale too long.

"You have indeed been a friend to me," she said. "God bless you, you
good Samaritan! May the world go well with you! Good-night, and thank
you, and good-bye. If you'll give me the stable key, I'll let myself in.
It's a pity you should come out; its raining again. And I'll leave the
stable locked when I go. And the key will be in the lavender bush at the
door. Good-bye again."

* * * * *

I did not sleep that night, and in the morning I was so tired that I
made no