“‘How is he?’
“‘I don’t know!—Going, I expect.’ He spoke in a tone that might have been half heartless, half heartfull. Mrs. Meadow stayed no further questions. She left him there, and went on to the inner room.
“That was so dark, hardly anything could be seen. A woman rose up from some corner—it proved to be Mrs. Finch—and went for the light. Her husband’s voice could be heard gruffly asking her what she wanted with it, and her muttered words of reply; and then she came back with it in her hand.
“The room was ill-lighted when the candle was in it, but there could be seen two beds; one raised on some sort of a bedstead, the other on the floor in a corner. No fire was in this room, and the bed was covered with all sorts of coverings; a torn quilt, an old great-coat, a small ragged worsted shawl, and Norman’s own poor little jacket and trowsers. But on these, close within reach of the boy’s hand, lay curled the little dog; his glossy white hair and soft outlines making a strange contrast with the rags and poverty and ugliness of the place.
“Norman did not look much changed, except that his face was so very pale it seemed as if he had no more blood to leave it. Mrs. Meadow and Silky came near, and neither of them at first was forward to speak. Mrs. Finch stood holding the light. Then Mrs. Meadow stooped down by the bed’s head.
“‘Little Norman,’ she said, and you could tell her heart was full of tears,—‘do you know me?’
“‘I know you,’ he said, in a weak voice, and with a little bit of smile.
“‘How do you do?’
“‘Very well,’ he said, in the same manner.
“‘Are you very well?’ said Mrs. Meadow.