“What’s wrong with ye?” asked the woman in a not unkindly voice. Norah could detect the odour of whisky in her breath and concluded that both the man and woman were drunk.
“Poor girl!” said the man when Norah did not answer. He looked closely at her and seemed to understand her plight. “Poor lassie!” he repeated.... “Where’s yer folk? Ah, I know who ye are, for I saw ye before. Ye were here with the tattie diggers last year, weren’t ye?”
“Come doon to the shed with us,” said the woman. “It’s warmer there than here.”
The woman took the girl gently but firmly by the hand and led her into the sty in which herself and the man lived. Norah made no protest and followed the woman without a word. In the dwelling-place of the man and woman it was very dark and rats were scampering all over the place.
“Jean,” said the man on hearing the scurrying in the corner, “rats!”
“Last night they ate all our food,” said the woman.
“Last night, Jean?” interrogated the man.
“The night before,” the woman corrected.
The man drew a match from his pocket, rubbed it on his trousers and lit a candle stuck in the neck of a black bottle which stood on the floor. Near it a small pile of wood, hemmed with a few lumps of coal, was ready for lighting. To this the man applied the match and in a few minutes the fire was burning brightly. A dark smoke rose to the roof, which was broken in several places; something small like a bird fluttered out from the rafters and whirred in the air above.
“Jean,” said the man, “a blind bat!”