Early in the morning she had given him a bowl of porridge and had eaten some herself. A bowl containing porridge for Steve when he wakened was set by the hearth.
The house was in order, Davey bathed, and put in his basket in the sun, and Mary was making bread of the little flour and meal left in the bags, when Steve awoke.
He sat up on the bed and looked uneasily about the room. He was a frail, sickly-looking creature. The fever had left him, but there were apprehension and desperate fear in his eyes, as with a quickened light they rested on her.
"He's awake!" Mary called softly to the man out of doors.
He sprang across the threshold.
"It's all right, Steve," he said. "This woman's a friend."
She had stooped to the hearth and lifted the bowl of porridge.
Steve ate like a hungry dog, tearing at the bread, and thrusting large spoonfuls of porridge into his mouth. Mary gave him a cup of hot milk. He swallowed it at once, and coughed and swore as it scalded his throat.
"If you could see what you can do for us in the way of clothes, ma'am," his companion said, "we'll be moving on."
Her eyes were troubled.