“Poor Milly!” the woman sighed, and then, seeming to be overcome by stupor, fell back into her former position.
She was so weakened by hunger, and cold, and the fatigue of watching, that she was scarcely conscious of Editha’s presence, and had answered her questions in a mechanical sort of way.
Ere long a quick, light step sounded on the stairs, and the next moment Milly entered, bearing a basket of coal in one hand, a pail and two or three packages in the other.
“Here, mother, come quick,” she said, in an eager whisper; “help me make a fire and warm broth for father. I got it ’round the corner at the oyster-house.”
She had deposited her burdens in the middle of the floor, and was down upon her knees before the warped and cracked stove before she had ceased speaking, nimbly yet quietly laying the kindlings, which in another instant she kindled, and a cheerful roar and crackling sounded through the room, giving promise of warmth and comfort ere long.
“That’s the sweetest music we’ve heard for a month, isn’t it mother?” Milly said, in a cheery whisper; and Mrs. Loker, as if aroused by the unaccustomed sound, arose and dragged her weary steps across the floor toward where she sat.
But her strength was exhausted before she reached her, and she sank down beside the stove, helpless and nearly fainting.
Milly, meanwhile, had produced a candle from somewhere, which she lighted and set upon the mantel over the stove.
“Drink a little of this, mother,” the child said, springing to her and putting the pail to her blue lips.
The woman eagerly grasped it and swallowed a few mouthfuls of the oyster broth which it contained.