Young Little looked at him gravely, and wondered whether this battered figure was really the man who had so nearly destroyed him.

After some minutes of this contemplation, he said gravely “Simmons, I have brought you some wine.”

The man stared at him, and seemed confused.  He made no reply.

“Give me a spoon,” said Henry.

Mrs. Simmons sat by the bedside rocking herself; she was stupefied with grief; but her sister, a handy girl, had come to her in her trouble:  she brought Henry a spoon directly.

He poured out a little wine, and put it to the sufferer’s lips.  He drank it, and said it was rare good stuff.  Henry gave him a little more.

Simmons then looked at him more intelligently and attentively, and gave a sort of shiver.  “Who be you?”

“Henry Little; who advised you not to run that stone.”

“Ah!” said Simmons, “I thought it was you.”  He seemed puzzled.  But, after a while, he said, “I wish I had hearkened thee, lad.  Give me some more of yonder stuff.  What is it?”

“Port wine.”  Then he turned to the girl, and gave her a sovereign, and sent her out for some mutton-chops.  “Meat and wine are all the physic you are to have, my poor fellow.”

“It won’t be for long, lad.  And a good job too.  For I’m a bad ’un.  I’m a bad ’un.”

Henry then turned to the poor woman, and tried to say something to console her, but the words stuck in his throat.  She was evidently near her confinement; and there lay her husband, worse than in his grave.  Little broke down himself, while trying to comfort her.

The sufferer heard him, and said, all of a sudden, “Hold a light here.”

Henry took the candle, and held it over him.

“Nay, nay, it is thy face I want to see.”

Henry was puzzled at the request, but did as he was asked.

Simmons gave a groan.  “Ay,” said he, “thou’st all right.  And I lie here. 
That seems queer.”

The sister now returned, and Henry wrote her his address, and conversed with her, and told her the whole story of the grindstone, and said that, as he had hindered Simmons from being taken to the infirmary, he felt bound to see he did not suffer by that interference.  He gave her his address, and said, if anything was wanted, she must come to him, or to his mother if he should be out.

No doubt the women talked of his kindness by the sick bed, and Simmons heard it.

Early in the morning Eliza Watney called at Little’s house, with her eyes very red, and said her brother-in-law wanted to speak to him.

He went with her directly; and, on the road, asked her what it was about.

“I’m ashamed to tell you,” said she, and burst out crying.  “But I hope God will reward you; and forgive him:  he is a very ignorant man.”

“Here I am, Simmons.”

“So I see.”

“Anything I can do for you?”