My little Charley, with her premature experience of illness and trouble, had pulled off her bonnet and shawl and now went quietly up to him with a chair and sat him down in it like an old sick nurse. Except that no such attendant could have shown him Charley’s youthful face, which seemed to engage his confidence.
“I say!” said the boy. “YOU tell me. Ain’t the lady the t’other lady?”
Charley shook her head as she methodically drew his rags about him and made him as warm as she could.
“Oh!” the boy muttered. “Then I s’pose she ain’t.”
“I came to see if I could do you any good,” said I. “What is the matter with you?”
“I’m a-being froze,” returned the boy hoarsely, with his haggard gaze wandering about me, “and then burnt up, and then froze, and then burnt up, ever so many times in a hour. And my head’s all sleepy, and all a-going mad-like—and I’m so dry—and my bones isn’t half so much bones as pain.”
“When did he come here?” I asked the woman.
“This morning, ma’am, I found him at the corner of the town. I had known him up in London yonder. Hadn’t I, Jo?”
“Tom-all-Alone’s,” the boy replied.
Whenever he fixed his attention or his eyes, it was only for a very little while. He soon began to droop his head again, and roll it heavily, and speak as if he were half awake.