"On the woad under the hedge. 'Tis cold, ma'am." Here his eyes lighted on a flat cake of bread lying on the little deal table that served as a counter, and he burst out crying. "I'm so hungwy. 'Dive' me some 'bwead'!"
Betty cut a good piece and gave it to him. Before he took a morsel, the little hand was stretched out.
"Some for Fwank, though he says he's not hungwy. But we've had none—oh, for ever so long."
"Show me where he is," said old Betty; and they set out together, the boy devouring the bread. It was some way off: there was a high hedge growing on a low bank. On the side path, with his head on the sloping bank, lying on his back, with his arms stretched out and his white face upturned towards the clear starry sky, lay Frank. Betty knelt beside him, and touched him; she spoke to him, and at last raised him into a sitting posture, leaning against her arm. But the child neither spoke nor moved, not so much as to open his eyes.
"And no jacket at all! No wonder he's cold. I doubt he's colder than is natural, though 'tis a cold night too."
She got up as she spoke, and lifted him in her old arms.
"Light as a feather, too. Skin and bone—not much of it either. Come, little chap, trot on beside me. I must get this child warm—if I can."
Fred confidingly ran beside her, her walk keeping him running, and though she saw that the child was weary and could scarcely do it, she did not slacken her pace. Into the warm cottage, she carried the boy, laying him on the floor before the fire, and putting a pillow under his head. She put her hand on his heart—poor little loving, brave heart. She thought it fluttered, but not more than that. She got some milk and warmed it, giving a cupful to Fred. Then she tried patiently to make Frank swallow a spoonful, but tried in vain. Fred, having finished his share, sat down beside his brother.
"Fwank, isn't this nice and cosy? Put your arms wound me as you always do."
Betty thought there was an effort to move, but even of that she was not sure.