long as I may well see. And it is bitter trouble, I fear. Sometimes
these troubles pass a little, by being told."

The kind words softened me somewhat, and I answered him quietly:

"Aye, Father--there is trouble, but not to be told. I will take myself
and it away in the morning, and so bear it by myself."

He looked wistfully at me as one who fain would help another, saying:

"Other men's troubles press lightly on such as I, my son, save that they
add to my prayers."

And I was half-minded to tell him all and seek his counsel: but I would
not. Still, I would answer him, and so feigning cheerfulness, said:

"One trouble, Father, I fear you cannot help me in. I have nought
wherewith to reward this honest man for lodging and guidance--nor for
playing Grendel on him, and eating his food to boot."

"Surely you have honest hands by whom to send him somewhat? or he will
lead you to friends who will willingly lend to you?"

And I had neither. I, who but a few weeks ago could have commanded both
by scores--and now none might aid me. None might call me friend--I
was alone. These words brought it home to me more clearly than before,
and the loneliness of it sank into my heart, and my pride fled, and I
told the good man all, looking to see him shrink from me.

But he did not, hearing me patiently to the end. I think if he had