Clifford stood in the doorway.
“It’s I, Colonel. May I come in?”
The old man raised his head quickly, and gave him a little wan smile, as he held out his hand.
“Come in, come in; yes.”
Then, having held the young man’s warm hand in his own cold one for a few moments, he let it fall, and, inviting him, with a gesture, to be seated, relapsed into silence. Clifford asked him if he should make up the fire. It was a cold evening, and the draughts had been allowed to sweep through the house from open window to open door.
“Yes, yes, my lad; warm yourself if you can. It would take more fire than there is on earth to warm my old bones to-night.”
The stern sadness of his tone sent a shiver through Clifford, who, indeed, had little comfort to give him. He had some difficulty in getting the fire to burn up, and when at last he succeeded, he found that the coal-scuttle was empty.
“I will fetch you some coal,” said the Colonel, who was proceeding to rise from his chair, when Clifford stopped him.
“No. Tell me where to get it,” said he quickly, snatching up the scuttle.
“Oh, well, if you will, you will find the lid of the water-butt on the ground outside, at the back. If you lift it—but really I don’t like to trouble you—you will find the entrance to the cellar underneath.”