“Well now,” said Jan, “’tis very sad, that, Mr. Frisby. A sorrowful tale, indeed. May-hap Parson ’ud help ye.”
“Nay,” returned Joseph lugubriously; “we be chapel folk, an’ Parson he says he han’t got no faith in me.”
“Well, ’tis terrible onfart’nate for ’ee, I’m sure,” returned Mr. Domeny unconcernedly. “But bad times can’t laist for ever. There’s comfort in that, Mr. Frisby. The Lard trumpets the wind to the sore lamb, as Scriptur’ says.”
Having delivered himself of this edifying aphorism, young Jan Domeny hoisted his sack a little higher up on his shoulder, and strode on.
“They be all alike,” muttered Joe to himself; “they be a stony-hearted lot. Not one among ’em ’ud gi’e a man a helpin’ hand. Dang ’em all!” cried Joe, and he thumped upon the gate.
He turned and shuffled slowly towards the house, pushing open the door. A little old woman was sitting, propped up by pillows, in an armchair near the hearth. She was almost crippled by rheumatism, yet managed in some inexplicable way to preserve a tolerable appearance of neatness and cleanliness, both in her own person and in such of her surroundings as came within reach of her poor distorted fingers. The hearth was tidy, for instance, and the kitchen utensils and crockery on the little dresser behind her chair were bright and clean. It must be supposed that her husband, who would have been much the better for a share of her attention, kept himself systematically out of reach.
“Well?” she inquired, eagerly looking up as he entered.
“Well, ’tain’t a bit o’ use. They’ll none o’ them do a thing for me.”
Mrs. Frisby sighed. “Come, sit down anyhow,” she said. “Supper’s ready, an’ the tea’s drawed beautiful.”
Joe shambled over and sat down. His wife, leaning painfully forward in her chair, moved the little brown teapot from the hob to the table, and then, stooping again with yet more difficulty, took up a plateful of dry toast and proffered it to the old man.