to the bad--who turned highwayman--whom _you_ saved. The only
one out of the eight,--the rest were hanged at Tyburn and Kennington,
poor devils,--and thought I would ride over and thank you, and see
you once more. Your husband would have hanged me, I dare say--but
there, there, peace to his soul."

"Amen," whispers Sophie Pemberthy.

"You saved me; you set me thinking of my young mother, who died
when I was a lad and loved me much too well; and you taught me
there were warm and loving hearts in the world; and when I went
away from here I went away from the old life. I cannot say how that
was; but," shrugging his shoulders, "so it was."

"It was a call," said Sophie, piously.

"A call to arms, for I went to the wars. And what is it now that
brings me back here to thank you--an old, time-worn reprobate,
turned soldier and turned respectable!--what is that?"

"I don't know."

"Another call, depend upon it. A call to Maythorpe, where I expected
to find a fat farmer and his buxom partner and a crowd of laughing
boys and girls; where I hoped I might be of help to some of them,
if help were needed. And," he adds, "I find only you--and you just
the same fair, bright girl I left behind me long ago."

"Oh no."