melting, and I ventured to ask him if there was any mortal thing I could
do for him. 'Do tell me, dear,' I ventured to say. 'I am an old woman,
and you, sir, are only a boy, though it's a fine man you will be--like
your dear, splendid father, which I remember so well, and gentle like
your poor dear mother.'

"'You're a dear!' he says; and with that I took up his hand and kissed
it, for I remember his poor dear mother so well, that was dead only a
year. Well, with that he turned his head away, and when I took him by
the shoulders and turned him round--he is only a young boy, ma'am, for
all he is so big--I saw that the tears were rolling down his cheeks.
With that I laid his head on my breast--I've had children of my own,
ma'am, as you know, though they're all gone. He came willing enough, and
sobbed for a little bit. Then he straightened himself up, and I stood
respectfully beside him.

"'Tell Mr. Melton,' he said, 'that I shall not trouble him about the
trustee business.'

"'But won't you tell him yourself, sir, when you see him?' I says.

"'I shall not see him again,' he says; 'I am going back now!'

"Well, ma'am, I knew he'd had no breakfast, though he was hungry, and
that he would walk as he come, so I ventured to say: 'If you won't take
it a liberty, sir, may I do anything to make your going easier? Have you
sufficient money, sir? If not, may I give, or lend, you some? I shall
be very proud if you will allow me to.'

"'Yes,' he says quite hearty. 'If you will, you might lend me a
shilling, as I have no money. I shall not forget it.' He said, as he
took the coin: 'I shall return the amount, though I never can the
kindness. I shall keep the coin.' He took the shilling, sir--he
wouldn't take any more--and then he said good-bye. At the door he turned
and walked back to me, and put his arms round me like a real boy does,
and gave me a hug, and says he:

"'Thank you a thousand times, Mrs. Martindale, for your goodness to me,
for your sympathy, and for the way you have spoken of my father and
mother. You have seen me cry, Mrs. Martindale,' he said; 'I don't often
cry: the last time was when I came back to the lonely house after my poor
dear was laid to rest. But you nor any other shall ever see a tear of
mine again.' And with that he straightened out his big back and held up
his fine proud head, and walked out. I saw him from the window striding
down the avenue. My! but he is a proud boy, sir--an