"Dear, dear, dear!" she said piteously. "Poor soul, poor soul!"
Mr. Moss was not idle. All the finer qualities of his nature were stirred to action by the adventures of the night. He knelt before the grate; it was empty; not a cinder had been left; some gray ashes on the hearth--that was all. He looked into the broken coal scuttle; it had been scraped bare. Rising to his feet, he stepped to the cupboard; a cracked cup and saucer were there, a chipped plate or two, a mouthless jug, and not a vestige of food. Without a word he left the room, and sped downstairs.
He was absent fifteen or twenty minutes, and when he returned it was in the company of a man who carried a hundredweight of coals upon his shoulders. Mr. Moss himself was loaded; under his armpits two bundles of wood; in one hand a loaf of bread, tea, and butter; in his other hand a can of milk.
"God bless you, sir!" said the woman who was assisting Dr. Spenlove.
Mr. Moss knelt again before the grate, and made a fire. Kettle in hand he searched for water.
"You will find some in my room, sir," said the woman.
Mrs. Turner and her babe were now in bed, the child still craving for food, the mother still unconscious, but breathing heavily. The fire lit, and the kettle on, Mr. Moss put on his fur overcoat, whispered a good-night to Dr. Spenlove, received a grateful pressure of the hand in reply, slipped out of the house, and took his way home, humming:
"O del ciel angeli immortal,
Deh mi guidate con voi lassù!
Dio giusto, a te m'abbandono,
Buon Dio m'accorda il tuo perdono!"
He looked at his hands, which were black from contact with the coals.
"What will Mrs. Moss say?" he murmured.