'There, go, Nobby, look thee out an' see howst black she is. Ta, but it's hawt,' and he rubbed his forehead with his sleeve; 'it's a deal pity this hot can nawt go out where's cold, an' people needin' it. Here's hot, there's cold, but 'twill stay here, as it loved the place 'twas born—home, like. Why, Net, that thee?'
There was no door to the place to knock at or open, but the craunch of a foot was heard on the coal outside, and a girl came in, moist and shivering. The stoker set her down in a warm corner, and looked at her now.
'Is thee, my little Net?' he repeated.
'Yes, and I've brought your breakfast, father; 'twas striking six before I come in.'
'Too early, my girl, sleep her sleep out. Here's hot an' cosey like, an' time goes, an' I could wait for breakfast, till I'm home. I'll nawt let my little girl's sleep.'
'No, father, I couldn't sleep after five, anyway; and I thought I must bring your breakfast to-day. You'll walk back through the cold easier after something hot to eat.'
'That's my dear little girl. Shiverin' yet, she is. There, lay down on this,' raking out a heap of fresh ashes, 'them warm an' soft like, an' go ye to sleep till I go.'
'No, I must heat your coffee,' she answered, steadying the pot before one of the furnaces with bits of coal.
''Ware that door doan' fly back an' hurt ye; them does so sometimes.'
'Yes, I'll be careful. Why, you've got Whitney here!'