which her basket contained.  Then taking the little one in her lap, and making the others lay down on the bed—­for hunger had awoke them far before they had their needful rest, she sat down upon the tool-chest lulling the child to sleep, and patiently awaiting the arrival of the father.  A step approached, it was not the man, however, but the landlady’s wayward nephew:—­he, too, carried a basket, and seemed pleased, but not at all surprised at seeing Mary.

‘I knew I should find you here,’ said he, sitting beside her, (he was much more companionable with her than with any other person,) ’I knew as soon as you came back and heard how badly off these poor creatures were, you would come to relieve them.  It’s like you, Mary, you seem the only Angel amongst a race of fiends.’

’It is our duty to help the poor and needy, Edward:  I only grieve I was absent from the village.  Things ought never to have come to this pass.  Why did not the neighbors help them?’

’Why, Mary, in the first place you know poor Johnson was no favorite of theirs—­he was better educated than any of them, you know he was not bred a carpenter, but intended for a minister,—­so he has often told me himself, for he has been my schoolmaster, it’s because we are both lonely, I suppose, that he talked to me, but he kept aloof from the others, and they all said pride would have a fall, and so would not come near him in his trouble.  My aunt and he had quarrelled, but she would gladly help him for all that if he would only accept of it, but his pride sticks in the way.  I knew he was away, or I would not have brought this with me; however, you can say you brought it.’

’I can never tell an untruth, Edward, but you can leave it, perhaps he will ask no questions.’

’I’m not quite sure of that, Mary; but I’ve played him one trick this morning for his own good, and if you won’t help me to play another, e’en let it alone—­all have their weak side,—­that abstract idea of truth you worship, Mary, is yours.’

‘And do you not love the truth too, Edward?’

’I never tell a wilful lie, Mary, you know.  I’d scorn it, and I never break my word,—­but still, look at truth’s reward,—­here! the home of an honest man, and there!’ he pointed towards the castle.  ’Ah! forgive me, Mary, stupid dolt, that I am.’

’You have not hurt me, Edward, but must never think honesty and truth has no reward even on earth; a good conscience is a blessing none can take away from us, and there is hope in Heaven.’

’There had need be, Mary,—­I won’t contradict you, though I don’t know much about it.  The Bible says so, and I suppose it’s true:  but poor Johnson, I’m thinking will be more glad of the five pounds I tricked him into accepting this morning than a dozen good consciences.’

‘How was that done, Edward?’