The kettle sang, the fire crackled, and the wind shook the windows and doors. But suddenly, through the other sounds, Margaret was aware of an intermittent knocking—a low, hesitating sound, as of some one outside afraid, and yet eager, to make himself heard.
She started up, and her companion—a homely neighbour, one of those persons whose goodness had, perhaps, helped to shape poor Margaret's philosophy of life—looked round with a scared expression.
'Whoiver can it be, this time o' neet?' said Margaret—and she looked at the old clock—'why, it's close on middle-neet!'
She hesitated a moment, then she went to the door, and bent her mouth to the chink—
'Who are yo? What d' yo want?' she asked, in a distinct but low voice, so as not to disturb 'Lias.
No answer for a minute. Then her ear caught some words from outside. With an exclamation she unlocked the door and threw it open.
'Davy! Davy!' she cried, almost forgetting her patient.
The boy clung to the lintel without a word.
'Coom your ways in!' she said peremptorily, catching him by the sleeve. 'We conno ha no draughts on th' owd man.'
And she drew him into the light, and shut the door. Then as the shaded candle and firelight fell on the tall lad, wavering now to this side, now to that, as though unable to support himself, his clothes dripping on the flags, his face deadly white, save for the smears of blood upon it, the two women fell back in terror.