“Have you never been here before?” he asked.

“Never but once, sir, when I was a child, many years ago.”

“What part of the country do you come from?”

“Uffeulme.”

“Uffeulme?  How did you get here?”

“We have walked.”

“You don’t say that you have trudged all the way with that youngster?”

The housekeeper drowned the reply by loudly announcing to the old gentleman that his supper was waiting—­“We have no lodgings, my good woman,” she said, turning away from the gate.

“Stop, Martha, stop,” said the citizen.  “Can’t we direct them somewhere?—­you see they are strangers.  I wonder where they could get a lodging?”

“I am sure I don’t know,” replied Martha, peevishly; “your supper will be cold—­come in!”

“We’ve had no supper,” said the boy.

“Poor little fellow!” said the old gentleman; “then I am sure you shall not go without.  Martha, the bread and cheese!” And, opening the garden-gate, he made the travelers enter and sit down in the summer-house, whilst he went to fetch them a draught of cider.

In spite of Martha’s grumbling, he managed to get a substantial repast; but it grieved him that the woman, though she thanked him very gratefully and humbly, appeared unable to eat.

“Your boy eats heartily,” said he, “but I am afraid you don’t enjoy it.”

With a choking utterance she thanked him, but could not eat.

The good old man was striving, as well as he could, to explain to them their way to a part of the city, where they might find a lodging, when the garden-gate opened, and a young man gave to the host a hearty greeting.

At the sound of his voice, the cup the woman held in her hand, fell to the ground.  This drew the youth’s attention to her; he looked earnestly at her for a moment, and with an exclamation of surprise, said, “Why, this is Susan Harvey?”

The woman hid her face in her hands, and moaned.

“Do you know her, then, Alfred?” said the uncle.

“She nursed me when I was a little sickly boy,” replied the youth; “she lived many years in my father’s house.”

“Then I am sure you will take her to some lodging to-night, for she is quite a stranger here.  There is Martha calling to me again; she is not in the best temper to-night, so I had better go in, and I leave them to your care.”

“Oh! tell me, Mr. Gray, have you seen him?” cried the woman eagerly.

“I have been with him to-day, Susan,” said Gray, kindly taking her hand—­“do not be cast down; all that can be done for Martin, shall be done.  Let me take you where you can rest to-night, and to-morrow you can be with him.”

The weary little boy had fallen asleep on the seat; the mother strove to arouse him, but Alfred Gray prevented her, by taking the little fellow in his arms.  He carried him by her side through the streets; she could utter no words of gratitude, but her tears flowed fast, and told how the young man’s sympathy had fallen like balm upon her wounded heart.  “God has taken pity on me,” she said, when they parted.