"Me! Oh, Lord L'Estrange!"

"You have married since then, and reformed, I suppose. Tell me, old
friend, all about it."

Mr. Digby, who by this time had succeeded in restoring some calm to his
shattered nerves, now rose, and said in brief sentences, but clear, firm
tones,--

"My Lord, it is idle to talk of me,--useless to help me. I am fast
dying. But my child there, my only child" (he paused for an instant, and
went on rapidly). "I have relations in a distant county, if I could but
get to them; I think they would, at least, provide for her. This has
been for weeks my hope, my dream, my prayer. I cannot afford the journey
except by your help. I have begged without shame for myself; shall I be
ashamed, then, to beg for her?"

"Digby," said L'Estrange, with some grave alteration of manner, "talk
neither of dying nor begging. You were nearer death when the balls
whistled round you at Waterloo. If soldier meets soldier and says
'Friend, thy purse,' it is not begging, but brotherhood. Ashamed! By
the soul of Belisarius! if I needed money, I would stand at a crossing
with my Waterloo medal over my breast, and say to each sleek citizen I
had helped to save from the sword of the Frenchman, 'It is your shame if
I starve.' Now, lean upon me; I see you should be at home: which way?"

The poor soldier pointed his hand towards Oxford Street, and reluctantly
accepted the proffered arm.

"And when you return from your relations, you will call on me? What--