“What are you doing here, child?” he asked, “on such a night, too. Why, you are wet through.”
She evaded his question, horror-stricken at his own state.
“You’re fair soaked,” she cried. “Mercy me!”
She brought out his gray homespun clothes from the chest, and with deft fingers removed his coat and waistcoat, talking all the while.
“Well, I never,” she exclaimed. “The rain’s gone through the lining. It’s a mercy you’ve had sense to keep the fire in. I’ll make you a hot drink directly.”
He submitted himself to her care. After the agony of the last few hours the sound of her shrill, but not unpleasant, voice and her breathless anxiety on his behalf seemed almost grateful. He was hustled into dry clothes, and his feet and hands were rubbed into a state of glowing warmth. Fresh logs were thrown upon the fire, a kettle boiled, and some tea deftly prepared. From one of her parcels came bread and meat. He ate at her bidding. Outside the storm grew in violence.
She sat crouched almost at his feet, the firelight playing on her brown hair, her eyes wet with tears.
A clearer sense of what was happening came to him. He sat up suddenly.
“How did you come here?” he asked.
“I haven’t a home,” she said. “Mother died last Thursday, Nancy’s taken the kids, father’s in jail—he’s got six months.”