"Well, here's a brave load of wood! I gathered it on the beach."
"Wood! aye, ragged fragments! There's many such drifting about in this world."
"Like enough, mother: and, ragged as they are, there's many a bold fellow with rags on his back that would be glad to warm his hands over them."
"There's one in his grave will never warm himself again." And here the old woman began to mutter her unintelligible songs.
"So!--the old crooning!" said the young man to himself: and, going up to the fire, he said--"Mother, you mind nothing: you've no thought for any of us; and one of these days you'll be doing something or other that will bring the police rats upon us: and then all's up; and we shall all go to the old tree."
"To the tree? go, and welcome! And I'll go with you. All the tribe of you is not worth a hair of him that I knew once. And when the day comes that some are outside and knocking at the door that shall knock (well I wot) one of these days,--and all you are hushed and trembling within, and the proudest of you shaking at the knees,--then comes my time for laughing: and I will open the door, and cry--Here they are!"
The young man muttered something to himself, pushed aside the cauldron, and laid on some faggots and dry wood,--so that the rude hovel was suddenly illuminated with splendour.
"Aye!" said the old woman, "best make a beacon-fire, and light all the constables up hither!"
"Well, better be hanged than freeze!--But, mother--mother, where's the warm broth for the poor perishing soul when he wakes?"
"What!" said the old woman angrily, "shall I go down on my knees, and tend him like a son of my own? Well I remember the day (woe is me!) that they all scoffed at me when I moaned for one that was not a stranger: as God's my help, I'll be no laughing-stock again: it's my turn to laugh next."