She understood, without my answering.  “You have given me a fancy for living, by speaking kindly to me,” she said.  “Kindness has a wonderful effect on women, and dogs, and other domestic animals.  It is only men who are superior to kindness.  Make your mind easy—­I promise to take as much care of myself as if I was the happiest woman living!  Don’t let me keep you here, out of your bed.  Which way are you going?”

Miserable wretch that I was, I had forgotten my mother—­with the medicine in my hand!  “I am going home,” I said.  “Where are you staying?  At the inn?”

She laughed her bitter laugh, and pointed to the stone quarry.  “There is my inn for to-night,” she said.  “When I got tired of walking about, I rested there.”

We walked on together, on my way home.  I took the liberty of asking her if she had any friends.

“I thought I had one friend left,” she said, “or you would never have met me in this place.  It turns out I was wrong.  My friend’s door was closed in my face some hours since; my friend’s servants threatened me with the police.  I had nowhere else to go, after trying my luck in your neighborhood; and nothing left but my two-shilling piece and these rags on my back.  What respectable innkeeper would take me into his house?  I walked about, wondering how I could find my way out of the world without disfiguring myself, and without suffering much pain.  You have no river in these parts.  I didn’t see my way out of the world, till I heard you ringing at the doctor’s house.  I got a glimpse at the bottles in the surgery, when he let you in, and I thought of the laudanum directly.  What were you doing there?  Who is that medicine for?  Your wife?”

“I am not married!”

She laughed again.  “Not married!  If I was a little better dressed there might be a chance for ME.  Where do you live?  Here?”

We had arrived, by this time, at my mother’s door.  She held out her hand to say good-by.  Houseless and homeless as she was, she never asked me to give her a shelter for the night.  It was my proposal that she should rest, under my roof, unknown to my mother and my aunt.  Our kitchen was built out at the back of the cottage:  she might remain there unseen and unheard until the household was astir in the morning.  I led her into the kitchen, and set a chair for her by the dying embers of the fire.  I dare say I was to blame—­shamefully to blame, if you like.  I only wonder what you would have done in my place.  On your word of honor as a man, would you have let that beautiful creature wander back to the shelter of the stone quarry like a stray dog?  God help the woman who is foolish enough to trust and love you, if you would have done that!

I left her by the fire, and went to my mother’s room.

IX