"Nay, lass; let's have a sup of broth," he said, in a tone that carried another message.
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—mama."
The child made efforts to drag himself to his feet by laying hold of the old man's trousers.
"Nay, laddie," said the old man, "mind my claes—they'll dirty thy bran-new brat for thee."
"Is he growing, father?" said the girl.
"Growing?—amain."
"And his eyes—are they changing color?—going brown? Children's eyes do, you know."