“I hate to see a woman cry.”
“So do I, mate. Makes the place dull.”
There was a pause, during which Abel carved away diligently, and Bart watched him intently, with his hands deep in his pockets.
“It’s all off, ar’n’t it, mate?” said Bart at last.
“Ay, it’s all off,” said Abel; and there was another pause.
“Think there’d be any chance for a man now?”
Abel looked up at his visitor, who took off the rough, flat, fur cap he wore, as if to show himself to better advantage; and after breathing on one rough, gnarled hand, he drew it down over his hair, smoothing it across his brow; but the result was not happy, and he seemed to feel it as the wood-carver shook his head and went on with his work.
“S’pose not,” said the looker-on with a sigh. “You see, I’m such a hugly one, Abel, lad.”
“You are, Bart. There’s no denying of it, mate; you are.”
“Ay! A reg’lar right-down hugly one. But I thought as p’r’aps now as her heart were soft and sore, she might feel a little torst a man whose heart also was very soft and sore.”