As he was absorbed in his meditations, he all at once encountered the upturned face of Smike, who was on his knees before the stove, picking a few stray cinders from the hearth and planting them on the fire. He had paused to steal a look at Nicholas, and when he saw that he was observed, shrank back, as if expecting a blow.
"You need not fear me. Are you cold?"
"N-n-o."
"You are shivering."
"I'm not cold. I'm used to it."
There was such an obvious fear of giving offense in his manner, and he was such a timid, broken-spirited creature, that Nicholas could not help exclaiming, "Poor fellow!"
"Oh dear, oh dear! my heart will break. It will, it will!" said Smike.
"Hush! Be a man; you are nearly one by years. God help you!"
"By years! Oh dear, dear, how many of them! How many of them since I was a little child, younger than any that are here now! Where are they all?"
"Of whom do you speak? Tell me."