"Wot do you mean now?" asked Sue.
"I mean as you'd never get no 'ployment, nor be able to hold up yer head. Who, I'd like to know, 'ud employ a prison lass—and what else 'ud you be?"
Here Sue, disregarding her companion's dislike to tears, broke down utterly, and exclaimed through her sobs:
"Oh! poor Giles—poor, poor Giles! It 'ull kill my little Giles. Oh! I didn't think as Lord Jesus could give me sech big stones to walk hover."
"Now ye're gettin' complicated," exclaimed the red-haired boy. "I make 'lowance fur yer tears—ye're but a gel, and I allow as the picture's dark—but who hever is Giles? And where are the stones? Ye're setting still this 'ere minute, and I guess as the arm-chair in which I placed yer, though none o' the newest, be better than a stone."
"Giles is my brother," said Sue; "and the stones—well, the stones is 'phorical, ef yer knows wot that means."
"Bless us, no! I'm sure I don't. But tell about Giles."
So Sue wiped her eyes again and went back a little further in her life-story.
"It is complicated," said her companion when she paused—"a lame brother, poor chap, and you the support. Well, well! the more reason as you should keep out o' prison. Now, Sue, this is wot I calls deep; jest keep still fur a bit, and let me put on my considerin' cap."
The red-haired boy seated himself on the floor, thrust his two hands into his shock of hair, and stared very hard and very straight before him. In this position he was perfectly motionless for about the space of half a minute; then, jumping up, he came again very close to Sue.