It was the first time she had heard it since she left home, and to Elizabeth’s tenacious nature home in absence had gained an additional charm, had grown to be the one place in the world about which her affections clung.  In these dreary wilds of London, to hear a Stowbury tongue, to catch sight of a Stowbury person, or even one who might know Stowbury, made her heart leap up with a bound of joy.  She turned suddenly, and looked intently at the young man, or rather the lad, for he seemed a mere lad, small, slight, and whiskerless.

“Well, Miss.  I hope you’ll know me again next time.” said the young fellow.  At which remark Elizabeth saw that he was neither so young nor so simple as she had at first thought.  She drew back, very much ashamed, and coloring deeply.

Now, if Elizabeth ever looked any thing like comely, it was when she blushed; for she had the delicate skin peculiar to the young women of her district; and when the blood rushed through it, no cheek of lady fair ever assumed a brighter rose.  That, or the natural vanity of man in being noticed by woman, caught the youth’s attention.

“Come now, Miss, don’t be shy or offended.  Perhaps I’m going your way?  Would you like company home?”

“No, thank you,” said Elizabeth, with great dignity.

“Well, won’t you even tell a fellow your name?  Mine’s Tom Cliffe, and I live—­”

“Cliffe!  Are you little Tommy Cliffe, and do you come from Stowbury?”

And all Elizabeth’s heart was in her eyes.

As has been said, she was of a specially tenacious nature.  She liked few people, but those she did like she held very fast.  Almost the only strong interest of her life, except Miss Hilary, had been the little boy whom she had snatched from under the horse’s heels; and though he was rather a scape-grace, and cared little for her, and his mother was a decidedly objectionable woman, she had clung to them both firmly till she lost sight of them.

Now it was not to be expected that she should recognize in this London stranger the little lad whose life she had saved—­a lad, too, from her beloved Stowbury—­without a certain amount of emotion, at which the individual in question broadly stared.

“Bless your heart, I am Tommy Cliffe from Stowbury, sure enough.  Who are you?”

“Elizabeth Hand.”

Whereupon ensued a most friendly greeting.  Tom declared he should have known her any where, and had never forgotten her—­never!  How far that was true or not, he certainly looked as if it were; and two great tears of pleasure dimmed Elizabeth’s kind eyes.

“You’ve grown a man now, Tommy,” said she, looking at him with a sort of half-maternal pride, and noticing his remarkably hand some and intelligent face, so intelligent that it would have attracted notice, though it was set upon broad, stooping shoulders, and a small, slight body.  “Let me see; how old are you?”

“I’m nineteen, I think.”