“Don’t say that,” said he quite gently. “The luck’s bound to turn.”
She stood quietly wiping a tear now and then, and he beside her turning his hand round and round in his breeches pocket.
At last he pulled the hand out and held it towards her: there was a silver coin in it.
“Ye’d best take it,” said he sheepishly. “I ’ad my week’s wage to-day, though they ’ave a-turned me off, and I can spare it nicely. It’ll get ye a bed and a bit o’ supper anyways.”
Her face flushed and her lip quivered again. But she took it.
“Ye’re very kind,” said she. “I ought to thank ye, I’m sure. If mother was alive...”
Her voice shook, and she didn’t finish the sentence.
He stepped to the hearth and took up her wretched little jacket that had lain there a-drying, handing it to her clumsily. Her last words echoed in his ears.
She took the jacket, and pushed her poor, thin arms into its shrunken sleeves; it was damp still, and it would not meet, even across her narrow chest.
“The luck’ll turn,” he repeated awkwardly. “It allers do turn—one way or t’other. Ye must try for work again at Hoo, yonder. There’s another factory there.”