he world than all the men and children,
and the rest of the animal creation put together."

"And yet no man's worth a woman's little finger, if you know what I
mean," Reuben Sharp went on, struggling manfully to get clear expression
for the tumult of painful feeling that was in him. "They don't know what
the world is; you cannot make 'em understand. The best fall into the
hands of the worst men. She was the best, and he was the worst: the
best, that she was. And I sent him to her, where she was living like an
honest woman, and learning to be a lady, in London."

"And who is this Matthew Glendore, whom you are going to see?"

"The worst of men--the basest; and he's on his death-bed! and I'm to
forgive him! I!

"Where is she? where is she, Glendore? for I know you through your
disguise."

We stared at the farmer while he raved, lit his cigar, and then, in the
torrent of his passion, let it out again. As we dipped to the hollow in
which Wimille lay, passing carts laden with iron ore, Sharp became more
excited.

"We cannot be far off now. He's lying at one of the iron-masters'
houses, half a mile beyond this Wimille. Let's stop: I must have some
brandy-and-water."

Hanger joyfully fell in with this proposition, vowing that he was
frozen, and really could not stand the cold without, unless he had
something warm within, any longer. We alighted at the village cabaret,
and drew near the sweet-smelling wood fire, from which the buxom
landlady drove two old men for our convenience. I protested they should
not be disturbed; but they went off shivering, as they begged us to do
them the honour of taking up their post in the chimney-corner.

We threw our coats off, and the grog was brought. The woman produced a
little carafon of brandy.

"Tell her to bring the bottle," Sharp shouted, impatiently. "Does she
take us to be school girls? Let the water be boiling. Ask her--Does she
know anything of this Matthew Glendore?"

The farmer mixed himself a stiff glass of brandy-and-water, while he
watched Hanger questioning the landlady with many bows and smiles.

"Plenty of palavering," Sharp muttered; then shouted--"Does she know the
scoundrel?"

"One minute, my friend," Hanger mildly observed, meaning to convey to
Sharp that he was asking a favour of gentlemen, not roaring his order to
slaves. "Permit me to get the good woman's answers. Yes; she knows
Monsieur Glendore."

"Mounseer Glendore! She knows no good of him."

"On