“What! in the little seal zorn?”
“Yes. Don’t betray me, woman, pray!”
“Betray you, Master Harry? You know I won’t.”
“You will not tell a soul?”
“You tell me not to tell nobody, and I won’t say a word even to my Liza. But they’re seeking for you everywhere—dead. Oh! My dear lad, shake hands. I am glad you warn’t drowned.”
The warm grasp of the rough woman’s coarse hand and the genuine sympathy in her eyes were too much for Harry Vine. Weak from mental trouble—more weak from hunger—manhood, self-respect, everything passed from him as he sank upon one of the hard pieces of weedy rock; and as the woman bent over him and laid her hands upon his shoulder, he flung his arms about her, let his head sink upon her breast, and cried like a child.
“Why, my poor, poor boy!” she said tenderly, with her hard wooden stay busk creaking in front, and her maund basket creaking behind, “don’t—don’t cry like that, or—or—or—there, I knew I should,” she sobbed, as her tears came fast, and her voice sounded broken and hoarse.
“There, what an old fool I am! Now, look here; you want to hide for a bit, just as if it was brandy or a bit o’ lace.”
“Yes, Poll; yes.”
“Then wait till it’s dark, and then come on to my cottage.”