"Yes, your honour."
And the lad, in default of a handkerchief, dug his knuckles into his eyes. A lad of resource and some decision of character, he cried no more. This fact was not lost upon Miser Farebrother.
"You did not break into the house, you say?"
"No, your honour; upon my soul I didn't!"
"And you found the door open?"
"Yes, your honour."
"Which door?"
"The kitchen door, your honour."
"How long have you been here?"
"Three days, your honour."