“Jessie is not well,” said the organist.
Braunt did not answer him, but crossed over to his daughter, and, smoothing her hair, said more gently than she had expected:
“What’s wrong, lassie? Art hungry?”
“No, no,” murmured the girl, eagerly. “We had tea before we came in. I’m not hungry.”
Langly, slow as he was to comprehend, saw that Braunt, at least, had been without food, perhaps for long. He had several times offered him money from his own scanty store, but it had always been refused, sometimes in a manner not altogether friendly. The organist went quietly out, leaving father and daughter alone together.
“Would you like me to get some one to come in—some woman?” said Braunt, anxiously. “We don’t know our neighbours, but one of the women would come in if she knew you were ill.”
The girl shook her head.
“I want none—naught but just to rest a little. It will all pass away soon. I need but rest.”
The father returned to his chair, and they sat silent in the gathering darkness.
Presently the door was pushed open, and Langly entered with parcels in his arms. He placed a loaf on the table, with the rest of his burdens, and put on the empty hearth the newspaper that held a pennyworth of coals.