“This is no weather for such as you, sir, to be out in,” said the elder considerately, but in the shy, hesitating tone usual to the poor when addressing those whom they fancy their betters.  “If you go a league more in the plight in which you are, you will be in a sad state before reaching home;” and he pointed significantly to my clothes, every stitch of which was dripping with mud and water.

“Yes, indeed,” I replied, “but what is to be done?”

“Why, sir,” he answered, “two hundred yards or so from this I’ve a cottage, and if nothing else, I can at least offer you a fire to dry yourself at.”

Certainly I was in good need of a shelter, for I was tired as well as cold and wet, but still I am sure that I should have refused this invitation from the fear that it had been made out of mere courtesy, and that my acceptance of it might, in fact, be unwelcome.  A few words spoken by the younger man convinced me, however, of the contrary.

“Yes, sir,” said he, “come;” and he added in a low voice to the other, “it will do mother good to have a visitor to divert her this evening.  She will fret less.”

“Thank you, then,” I assented, moved now by a feeling of painful curiosity; and we all three marched on.

A few minutes’ walk brought us in sight of a small one-storied cottage, built with flintstones, and standing isolated near a tilled field of about two acres:  before it stood a small kitchen-garden, and at one end of it an open shed half filled with firewood.  A thin wreath of blue smoke curling through its single chimney gave to the house, thanks to the desolate appearance of all the country around, an attractive look which on a finer day it might not have possessed.

“That’s my home,” exclaimed the old man, but as we approached it I noticed that both he and Henri slackened their pace and seemed to dread advancing:  at last both stopped and began to whisper.  They were evidently much moved, and the fear that I might be in their way occurring to me again, I told them of it, and expressed a hope that I was not intruding.

“No, no, sir,” cried they together, turning their poor sorrow-thinned faces toward me, as though they had interpreted my words as a reproach.  “No, no, sir, we are very glad to see you;” and they led the way to their cottage door.  Here, however, they paused again, and looked dismally at me.  Their emotion, too long pent up, was mastering them.  “The fact is, sir,” said the old man, trying, but in vain, to smile as he saw my eyes fixed upon him—­“The fact is, sir, we have not been quite hap—­py, not quite hap—­py, to—­day—­sir;” and he looked at me apologetically, as though his grief had been a fault to him, whilst two big tears, for a time kept in by an effort, rolled stealthily down his cheeks.