“Weel, ma’am,” said Stephen, making the best of it, with a smile; “when I ha finished off, I mun quit this part, and try another. Fortnet or misfortnet, a man can but try; there’s nowt to be done wi’out tryin’⁠—cept laying down and dying.”

“How will you travel?”

“Afoot, my kind ledy, afoot.”

Louisa coloured, and a purse appeared in her hand. The rustling of a banknote was audible, as she unfolded one and laid it on the table.

“Rachael, will you tell him⁠—for you know how, without offence⁠—that this is freely his, to help him on his way? Will you entreat him to take it?”

“I canna do that, young lady,” she answered, turning her head aside. “Bless you for thinking o’ the poor lad wi’ such tenderness. But ’tis for him to know his heart, and what is right according to it.”