Tom came into the yard, and Mildred was at the door, and opened it before he could place his hand on the latch.
“Put off them big shoes, and not a word above your breath, and not a stir, but get ye in again to your bed as still as a mouse,” said Mrs. Tarnley in a hard whisper, giving him a shake of the shoulder.
“Ye’ll gi’e me a mug o’ beer, Mrs. Tarnley, and a lump o’ bread, and a cut o’ cheese wouldn’t hurt me; I’m a bit hungry. If you won’t I must even take a smoke, for I can’t sleep as I am.”
“Well, I will give ye a drink and a bit o’ bread and cheese. Did ye lock the yard-door?”
“No,” said Tom.
“Well, no, never you mind; I’ll do it,” said Mildred, stopping him, “and go you straight to your room, and here’s the lantern for you; and now get ye in, and not a sound, mind, you gi’e me your pipe here, for you shan’t be stinkin’ the house wi’ your nasty tobaccy.”
So Tom was got quick to his bed.
And Mildred sat down again by the kitchen fire, to rest for a little, feeling too tired to undress.
“Well, I do thank God of His mercy he’s not a comin’; I do. Who can tell what would be if he was? And now, if only Master Harry was sure to keep away all might go right—yes, all—all might go right. Oh, ho, ho! I wish it was, and my old head at rest, for I’m worked worse than a horse, and wore off my feet altogether.”
And all this time she was looking through the kitchen-window, with dismal eyes, from her clumsy oak chair by the fire, with her feet on the fender, and her lean shanks as close to the bars as was safe, shaking her head from time to time as she looked out on the black outlines of the trees which stood high and gloomy above the wall at the other side, against the liquid moonlit sky.