The poor woman pressed the stout child, apparently two years old, to her breast, as if she felt it a great blessing and no load:  the gig drove rapidly on.

Presently Mr. Spires resumed his conversation.

“So you are from Stockington?”

“No, sir, my husband was.”

“So:  what was his name?”

“John Deg, sir.”

“Deg?” said Mr. Spires.  “Deg, did you say?”

“Yes, sir.”

The manufacturer seemed to hitch himself off toward his own side of the gig, gave another look at her, and was silent.  The poor woman was somewhat astonished at his look and movement, and was silent too.

After awhile Mr. Spires said again, “And do you hope to find friends in Stockington?  Had you none where you came from?”

“None, sir, none in the world!” said the poor woman, and again her feelings seemed too strong for her.  At length she added, “I was in service, sir, at Poole, in Dorsetshire, when I married; my mother only was living, and while I was away with my husband, she died.  When-when the news came from abroad—­that when I was a widow, sir, I went back to my native place, and the parish officers said I must go to my husband’s parish lest I and my child should become troublesome.”

“You asked relief of them?”

“Never; Oh, God knows, no, never!  My family have never asked a penny of a parish.  They would die first, and so would I, sir; but they said I might do it, and I had better go to my husband’s parish at once—­and they offered me money to go.”

“And you took it, of course?”

“No, sir; I had a little money, which I had earned by washing and laundering, and I sold most of my things, as I could not carry them, and came off.  I felt hurt, sir; my heart rose against the treatment of the parish, and I thought I should be better amongst my friends—­and my child would, if anything happened to me; I had no friends of my own.”

Mr. Spires looked at the woman in silence.  “Did your husband tell you anything of his friends?  What sort of a man was he?”

“Oh, he was a gay young fellow, rather, sir; but not bad to me.  He always said his friends were well off in Stockington.”

“He did!” said the manufacturer, with a great stare, and as if bolting the words from his heart in a large gust of wonder.

The poor woman again looked at him with a strange look.  The manufacturer Whistled to himself, and giving his horse a smart cut with the whip, drove on faster than ever.  The night was fast settling down; it was numbing cold; a gray fog rose from the river as they thundered over the old bridge; and tall engine chimneys, and black smoky houses loomed through the dusk before them.  They were at Stockington.

As they slackened their pace up a hill at the entrance of the town, Mr. Spires again opened his mouth.

“I should be sorry to hurt your feelings, Mrs. Deg,” he said, “but I have my fears that you are coming to this place with false expectations.  I fear your husband did not give you the truest possible account of his family here.”