"Mr. Trulock?" said the curate.
"That is my name, sir," said the tall man, in a sad, toneless voice, as if speaking were a trouble to him.
"I am Mr. Cloudesley, the curate of this parish; and this is my wife. We came to pay you a visit this Christmas Eve, that we may not be quite strangers when we meet to-morrow."
"Thank you, sir, and you, madam. If you will walk in,—but I have no place fit to bring a lady to."
Mr. Cloudesley was so struck with the unwilling air of this invitation, that he was about to say "some other day," and leave the place, when his wife surprised him by walking in. Something in the forlorn man touched little May's warm heart, and leaving her husband's side she entered the house quickly, saying:
"It is too cold to stand talking at the door."
The little parlour was in size and shape exactly the same as the one they had just left. But here there was no carpet, no curtain, no easy chair, and—worst of all—no fire. Four cane chairs and a small table formed the furniture.
"I was sitting in the kitchen, madam," said Mr. Trulock, looking at the bonnie, pleasant face of his little visitor, "and there is a fire there, though not a good one."
May followed him to the kitchen, which certainly was less cold than the parlour, and contained rather more furniture, though of the plainest and cheapest kind. A windsor chair, with arms, but no cushions, was drawn up close to the struggling fire, and in this Mr. Trulock placed the lady, and then slowly brought forward a seat for Mr. Cloudesley, and another for himself.
"You will want a nice tidy girl to keep you comfortable," said May. "Miss Jones will find you one—she knows all the nice girls in the place."