trespassing, madam," he replied in a voice whose ingratiating
quality was devoid of affectation, "--it can't be trespassing for a man
in great need to come for help to the nearest house."

"I'm too poor to help the poorest," objected the woman, "and I don't
like your luggage, sir." And she wondered why she had _sirred_ a
cut-throat looking ruffian such as this.

Dick Bellamy wondered why the woman, in this lonely place, spoke so
differently from the landlord of "The Coach and Horses." But he
remembered _The Penny Pansy_, and felt for an opening.

Her gaze reminded him of his blood.

"It is not, madam," he said impressively, "a corpse that I carry; though
how long the lady will survive, unless you can furnish us with
nourishment and shelter, I dare not conjecture. This blood which you see
is my own, spent in her defence."

He sat down on a chopping-block not far from the door, sliding Amaryllis
to his knees, and resting her head against his shoulder.

"You can't sit there all day nursing a great, grown girl, like she was a
child," said the woman.

"That is indeed true," he replied. "And therefore I beg you to let us
rest in your house until the young lady is fit to travel."

"It's easy to talk of travelling," she objected with sour insolence.
"But 'tis my belief that, once let the hussy in, I'll never be rid of
her."

"My desire to be gone," replied Dick, "by far outweighs any anxiety of
yours, my good woman."

"Are you her husband?" asked the woman, impressed, but trying to keep
the severity from fading out of her face.

"Not yet," replied Dick, assuming an expression of extreme solemnity.
"About us two, madam, hangs a web of mystery. It is a story I should
like to confide in you, for there is something in your face which
reminds me of my old mother," and he brought a note of pathos into his
voice, straight from the pages of "East Lynne," words and tone coming
with an ease which surprised him.

"There's naught preventing," said the woman, expectantly.

"Except that the lady needs rest, I want a wash, and we both want food,"
said Dick. "You just be as kind as you look, and I'll give you a pound
for every half-hour we spend in your house, and, if there's time, a
romance into the bargain. You know what's stranger than fiction, don't
you, mother?"

"The truth, they do say. But I dunno," she answered, doubtfully.

"What has happened to me in the last twenty-four hours," said Dick,
"would shame the most exc