"Only it's hard to wait so long," whispered sinking her voice. "I feels so bad."
"Ah, it's hard to bear,—hunger—ain't it?" said Job pityingly. "Poor little dear! Wish I'd anythin' to give ye, I do."
"There ain't nothin'—" and Ailie sobbed as she leant against the wall.
"Poor little 'un,—an' I can't get up to help ye. Get yer coverlid, an' wrap it round ye, Ailie, an' have some sleep. It'll make the mornin' come faster."
Ailie brought it slowly, and coiled herself up on the floor, like a little dormouse. She did not feel inclined yet to go to her closet, and once settled down on the floor, she did not move again. They kept their clothes on for warmth, both of them, these bitter nights, and Job lay patiently on his straw mattress, beneath the scanty covering.
"If 'twasn't for the thought o' the mornin', I'd be fain to give up, an' get some'un to apply to the work'us for us. Can ye hold out, Ailie?"
"I'll hold out," said Ailie, with an attempt at cheeriness.
"It's very cold," said Job, for something worse than the chill of winter's cold was upon him. Ailie did not know how he had denied himself day after day all but the barest pittance of food, that he might have more to give her. "It's very cold," he murmured. "'Lord, give us this day our daily bread.' But the day 'll soon be over."
"Yes," said Ailie, with a sob. "An' it's the second day we ain't had no daily bread."
"He'd give it us sure, if 'twas good for us. I did think maybe He was a-thinkin' of calling me Home in that way,—but the little lady's promised to help us now, eh?"