“Homeless, not I!” and the little man laughed again. Ralph felt unease. This change was not for the better. Rotha had been sitting at the window to catch the last glimmer of daylight as she spun. It was dusk, but not yet too dark for Ralph to see the tears standing in her eyes. Presently she rose and went out of the room.
“Never fear that I shall be clemm'd,” said Sim. “No, no,” he said, with a grin of satisfied assurance.
“God forbid!” said Ralph, “but things should be better soon. This is the back end, you know.”
“Aye,” answered the tailor, with a shrug that resembled a shiver.
“And they say,” continued Ralph, “the back end is always the bare end.”
“And they say, too,” said Sim, “change is leetsome, if it's only out of bed into the beck!”
The tailor laughed loud, and then stopped himself with a suddenness quite startling. The jest sounded awful on his lips. “You say the back end's the bare end,” he said, coming up to where Ralph sat in pain and amazement; “mine's all bare end. It's nothing but 'bare end' for some of us. Yesterday morning was wet and cold—you know how cold it was. Well, Rotha had hardly gone out when a tap came to the door, and what do you think it was? A woman, a woman thin and blear-eyed. Some one must have counted her face bonnie once. She was scarce older than my own lass, but she'd a poor weak barn at her breast and a wee lad that trudged at her side. She was wet and cold, and asked for rest and shelter for herself and the children-rest and shelter,” repeated the tailor in a lower tone, as though muttering to himself,—“rest and shelter, and from me.”
“Well?” inquired Ralph, not noticing Sim's self-reference.
“Well?” echoed Sim, as though Ralph should have divined the sequel.
“Had the poor creature been turned out of her home?”