They turned down a by-street; and after a slow walk of about a quarter of a mile—for the old man was still in considerable pain, and was much shaken—they arrived at a low but not untidy-looking cottage, with a little outbuilding by its side.
“Here we are,” said the knife-grinder. “Now come in, my lad. You shall have your tea, and we’ll have a chat together arterwards.”
Old Crow pulled a key out of his pocket, and opened the house door. The fire was burning all right, and was soon made to burst into a cheerful blaze. Then the old man hobbled round to the shed, and unbolting it from the inside, bade Jacob wheel in the cart. This done, they returned into the kitchen.
“Sit ye down, my lad,” said the knife-grinder. “Deborah’ll be back directly; the mills is just loosed.”
“Is Deborah your daughter?” asked Jacob.
The old man shook his head sorrowfully.
“No; I’ve never a one belonging me now.”
“That’s much same with myself,” said Jacob. “I’ve none as belongs me; leastways I cannot find ’em.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed the other. “Well, we’ll talk more about that just now. Deborah, ye see, is widow Cartwright’s wench; and a good wench she is too, as e’er clapped clog on a foot. She comes in each morn, and sees as fire’s all right, and fills kettle for my breakfast. Then at noon she comes in again to see as all’s right. And after mill’s loosed, she just looks in and sets all straight. And then, afore she goes to bed, she comes in, and stretches all up gradely.”
“And are you quite alone now?”