ompanion.
"I don't see nought amiss with it. Here's Mr. Girdlestone a-comin'.
He don't grumble at the place, I'll warr'nt."

The merchant was not in the best of tempers, for he had had an
altercation with the driver about the fare, and was cold into the
bargain. "At it again?" he said roughly, as he entered. "It is I who
ought to weep, I think, who have been put to all this trouble and
inconvenience by your disobedience and weakness of mind."

Kate did not answer, but sat upon a coarse deal chair beside the fire,
and buried her face in her hands. All manner of vague fears and fancies
filled her mind. What was Tom doing now? How quickly he would fly to
her rescue did he but know how strangely she was situated!
She determined that her very first action next morning should be to
write to Mrs. Dimsdale and to tell her, not only where she was, but all
that had occurred. The reflection that she could do this cheered her
heart, and she managed to eat a little of the supper which the old woman
had now placed upon the table. It was a rough stew of some sort, but
the long journey had given an edge to their appetites, and the merchant,
though usually epicurean in his tastes, ate a hearty meal.

When supper was over the crone, who was addressed by Girdlestone as
Jorrocks, led the way upstairs and showed Kate to her room. If the
furniture of the dining-room had been Spartan in its simplicity, this
was even more so, for there was nothing in it save a small iron
bedstead, much rusted from want of use, and a high wooden box on which
stood the simplest toilet requisites. In spite of the poverty of the
apartment Kate had never been more glad to enter her luxurious chamber
at home. The little carpetless room was a haven of rest where she would
be left, for one night at least, to her own thoughts. As she lay in
bed, however, she could hear far away the subdued murmur of
Girdlestone's voice and the shrill tones of the old woman. They were in
deep and animated converse. Though they were too far distant for her to
distinguish a word, something told her that their talk was about
herself, and the same instinct assured her that it boded her little
good.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

THE MAN WITH THE CAMP-STOOL.

When she awoke in the morning it was some little time before she could
realize where she was or recall the events which had made such a sudden
change in her life. The bare, cold room, with the whitewashed walls,
and the n