The old woman raked the fire together, hurriedly, and going close to her visitor who had entered, and shut the door, and who now stood in the middle of the room, put her hand upon the drenched cloak, and turned the unresisting figure, so as to have it in the full light of the fire. She did not find what she had expected, whatever that might be; for she let the cloak go again, and uttered a querulous cry of disappointment and misery.
“What is the matter?” asked her visitor.
“Oho! Oho!” cried the old woman, turning her face upward, with a terrible howl.
“What is the matter?” asked the visitor again.
“It’s not my gal!” cried the old woman, tossing up her arms, and clasping her hands above her head. “Where’s my Alice? Where’s my handsome daughter? They’ve been the death of her!”
“They’ve not been the death of her yet, if your name’s Marwood,” said the visitor.
“Have you seen my gal, then?” cried the old woman. “Has she wrote to me?”
“She said you couldn’t read,” returned the other.
“No more I can!” exclaimed the old woman, wringing her hands.
“Have you no light here?” said the other, looking round the room.