The young woman put plates and a bowl of broth on the table.
"To think that I can never see my own child, and everybody else can see him!" she said, and then there was another bout of tears.
The charcoal-burner supped at his broth in silence. A glistening bead rolled slowly down his wizened cheek, and the interview on the hearth went on without interruption:
"Mew—mew—mew." "Boo—loo—lal-la—mamma."
There was a foot on the gravel in front.
"How fend ye, Mattha?" said a voice from without.
"Come thy ways, Gubblum," answered the old man.
Gubblum Oglethorpe entered, dressed differently than of old. He wore a suit of canvas stained deeply with iron ore.
"I's thinking maybe Mercy will let me warm up my poddish," said Gubblum.
"And welcome," said Mercy, and took down from the dresser a saucepan and porridge thivel. "I'll make it for you while father sups his broth."