She laughed a little, and stood looking from the window into the fold-yard, saying presently that she feared the frost was going to set in now in earnest, which would not be pleasant for their journey.—For this was the last day of the nephews’ stay, and she was going home with them for a week. There had been no very severe cold all the winter; which was a shame because of the skating; if the ponds had a thin coating of ice on them one day, it would all melt the next.
“Bless me! there’s that poor child sitting out in the cold! What is he eating?—his dinner?”
Her words made us look from the window. Dick Mitchel had put himself down by the distant pig-sty, and seemed to be eating something that he held in his hands. He was very white—as might be seen even from where we stood.
“Mary,” said she to one of the servants, “go and call that boy in.”
Little Mitchel came in; pinched and blue. His clothes were thin, not half warm enough for the weather; an old red woollen comforter was twisted round his neck. He took off his battered drab hat, and put his bread into it.
“Is that your dinner?” asked Mrs. Jacobson.
“Yes’m,” said Dick, pulling the forelock of his light hair.
“But why did you not go home to-day?”
“Mother said there was nothing but bread for dinner to-day, and she give it me to bring away with my breakfast.”
“Well, why did you sit out in the cold? You might have gone indoors somewhere to eat it.”