eyes, and just now they were visibly inquisitive.

"You've not been very long used to tramping," she observed.

"No."

"I expect you've seen better days?"

"Some few, perhaps,"--and he smiled gravely--"But it comes harder to a
man who has once known comfort to find himself comfortless in his old
age."

"That's very true! Well!"--and Miss Tranter gave a short sigh--"I'm
sorry you won't stay on here a bit to pick up your strength--but a
wilful man must have his way! I hope you'll find your friend!"

"I hope I shall!" said Helmsley earnestly. "And believe me I'm most
grateful to you----"

"Tut!" and Miss Tranter tossed her head. "What do you want to be
grateful to me for! You've had food and lodging, and you've paid me for
it. I've offered you work and you won't take it. That's the long and
short of it between us."

And thereupon she marched out of the room, her head very high, her
shoulders very square, and her back very straight. Helmsley watched her
dignified exit with a curious sense of half-amused contrition.

"What odd creatures some women are!" he thought. "Here's this
sharp-tongued, warm-hearted hostess of a roadside inn quite angry
because, apparently, an old tramp won't stay and do incompetent work for
her! She knows that I should make a mere boggle of her garden,--she is
equally aware that I could be no use in any way on 'Feathery' Joltram's
farm--and yet she is thoroughly annoyed and disappointed because I won't
try to do what she is perfectly confident I can't do, in order that I
shall rest well and be fed well for one or two days! Really the kindness
of the poor to one another outvalues all the gifts of the rich to the
charities they help to support. It is so much more than ordinary
'charity,' for it goes hand in hand with a touch of personal feeling.
And that is what few rich men ever get,--except when their pretended
'friends' think they can make something for themselves out of their
assumed 'friendship'!"

He put on his hat, and plucked one of the roses clambering in at the
window to take with him as a remembrance of the "Trusty Man,"--a place
which he felt would henceforward be a kind of landmark for the rest of
his life to save him from drowning in utter cynicism, because within its
walls he had found unselfish compassion for his age and loneliness, and
disinterested sympathy for his seeming need. Then he went to say
good-bye to Miss Tranter. She was, as usual, in the bar, standing very
ere