“Who can it be?—robbers?” thought he, as he walked to the door. “I will wait and see if it be repeated.”
It was repeated.
“Who’s there?” he exclaimed, in a somewhat tremulous voice, as he stood with his hand upon the latch.
“It’s me,” said a low, shivering voice from without.
“And who’s ‘me’?”
“Floy,—little Floy,” was the answer.
“And what do you want here at this time of night?”
“I am freezing. Let me come in and sit by the fire, if only for a moment. I shall die upon your steps.”
The old man deliberated.
“You’re sure you’re not trying to get in after my money, what little I have? There isn’t any one with you, is there?”