“Fuel’s high, very high; and it takes a fearful quantity to keep the fire agoing.”
“But what a pleasant fire it makes!” said the little girl, as she looked at the flames curling aloft.
“Why, yes,” said Martin, in a soliloquising tone, “it is comfortable; but it would not do to have it burn so bright. It would ruin me completely.”
“Then you are poor?” said the little girl, looking about the room. The furniture was scanty; consisting only of the most indispensable articles, and those of the cheapest kind. They had all been picked up, at second-hand stores, for little or nothing.
It was no wonder that little Floy asked the question. Nevertheless, the miser looked suspiciously at her, as if there was some covert meaning in her words. But she looked so openly and frankly at him as quite to disarm any suspicions he might entertain.
“Poor?” he at length answered. “Yes, I am; or should be, if I plunged into extravagant living and expenses of every kind.” And he looked half regretfully at the sticks which had burned out, and were now smouldering in the grate.
“Well,” said Floy, “I am poor too, and so were father and mother. But I think I am poorer than you; for I have no home at all, no house to live in, and no fire to keep me warm.”
“Then where do you live?” asked the miser.
“I don’t live anywhere,” said the child, simply.