“In an outhouse near by,” he told her. “It’s terrible the abyss to which some people sink,” he went on. “How many of these derelicts might be saved if some restraining hand was reached out to help them, if some charitable soul would take pity on them.”
“When did you begin to look upon charity as a means of remedying social evils?” asked the girl almost fiercely. “Charity is a bribe paid to the maltreated so that they may hold their tongues.”
Morrison, as was his custom when the girl spoke in that manner, became silent.
“In here,” he said when they arrived at the dilapidated door of the pig-sty.
“In there?” questioned the girl and looked at Morrison.
Morrison entered with rather an important air; he was showing a new world to his fair companion. The girl hesitated for a moment on the threshold, then followed the young man into the dark interior.
Donal and Jean were seated at the fire drinking tea from the same can. On a small and dirty board which lay on the ground between them a chunk of dry bread and a little lump of butter could be seen. The two occupants of the sty took very little notice of the visitors; the man said “Good-morning” gruffly, the woman looked critically at the girl’s dress then went on with her meal.
“It must be cold here,” said the young girl, looking curiously round and noticing a streak of grey daylight stealing through the roof.
“Jean, is it cold here?” asked the man by the fire, biting the end of his crust.
“As cold as the grave,” answered the woman.