"I am not cold," replied Smike, quickly. "I am used to it."
There was such an obvious fear of giving offence in his manner, and he was such a timid, broken-spirited creature, that Nicholas could not help exclaiming, "Poor fellow!"
If he had struck the drudge, he would have slunk away without a word. But now he burst into tears.
"Oh, dear, oh, dear!" he cried, covering his face with his cracked and horny hands. "My heart will break. It will, it will!"
"Hush!" said Nicholas, laying his hand upon his shoulder. "Be a man; you are nearly one by years, God help you."
"By years!" cried Smike. "Oh, dear, dear, how many of them! How many of them since I was a little child, younger than any that are here now! Where are they all?"
"Whom do you speak of?" inquired Nicholas, wishing to rouse the poor, half-witted creature to reason. "Tell me."
"My friends," he replied, "myself—my—oh! what sufferings mine have been!"
"There is always hope," said Nicholas; he knew not what to say.
"No," rejoined the other, "no; none for me. Do you remember the boy that died here?"