Michael thanked her and went inside. "She's a good girl," he said to himself, as he walked through the shop, "a much nicer girl than any one looking at her would take her to be. A rough kind of girl, of course, but with good feelings."
Mrs. Wiggins had gone home, and Michael was sitting alone by his fire, feeling very weary and depressed, when a loud, impetuous knock on the street door resounded through the quiet house.
"There she is," said Michael, and he went out as quickly as he could to open the door.
"Come in," he said, as he opened it; "come in quickly and tell me."
"No, thank you," said the girl decidedly, "I won't come inside. I haven't much to tell. She's neither better nor worse; that's all they can say."
"No better! Oh dear!" said Michael. Then, as the cold air blew in upon him, he began to cough.
"Now do go in out of the cold," said the girl. "You'll be worse, if you don't take more care of yourself, Mr. Betts."
"But I want to hear what the doctor said. I want to know all about it," Michael protested. "If you won't come inside, I must stand here and catch cold."
"Oh, well, then," said the girl, yielding, "I don't want you to catch your death." And she stepped inside.
Michael led her into the inner room, and tried feebly to stir the dull fire into a blaze.