provided me with comforters.  All the little fellows, down to Billy himself, had a separate gift, which each must offer with a kiss, and with a word or two expressive of his good wishes.  All hoped I would come soon again, and Aleck more than hinted a request that I would postpone my departure to some indefinite period which he could not name.  Poor tremulous heart! how it throbbed amongst them all, and how sad it felt to part from them!  Love bound me to the happy room—­the only love that connected the poor outcast with the wide cold world.  This was the home of my affections—­could I leave it—­could I venture once more upon the boisterous waters of life without regret and apprehension?

Thompson kindly offered to accompany me on the following morning to the inn from which I was destined to depart, but I would not hear of it.  He was full of business; had little time to spare, and none to throw away upon me.  I begged him not to think of it, and he acquiesced in my wishes.  We were sitting together, and his wife and children had an hour or two previously retired to rest.

“Them’s good children, ain’t they, Stukely?” enquired Thompson, after having made a long pause.

“You may well be proud of them,” I answered.

“It looked nice of ’em to make you a little present of something before you went.  But it was quite right.  That’s just as it should be.  I like that sort of thing, especially when a man understands the sperrit that a thing’s given with.  Now, some fellows would have been offended if any thing had been offered ’em.  How I do hate all that!”

“I assure you, Thompson, I feel deeply their kind treatment of their friend.  I shall never forget it.”

“You ain’t offended, then?”

“No, indeed.”

“Well, now, I am so happy to hear it, you can’t think,” continued Thompson, fumbling about his breeches pocket, and drawing from it at length something which he concealed in his fist.  “There, take that,” he suddenly exclaimed; “take it, my old fellow, and God bless you.  It’s no good trying to make a fuss about it.”

I held a purse of money in my hand.

“No, Thompson,” I replied, “I cannot accept it.  Do not think me proud or ungrateful; but I have no right to take it.”

“It’s only twenty guineas, man, and I can afford it.  Now look, Stukely, you are going to leave me.  If you don’t take it, you’ll make me as wretched as the day is long.  You are my friend, and my friend mustn’t go amongst strangers without an independent spirit.  If you have twenty guineas in your pocket, you needn’t be worrying yourself about little things.  You’ll find plenty of ways to make the money useful.  You shall pay me, if you like, when you grow rich, and we meets again; but take it now, and make John Thompson happy.”