The girl at the fire threw up her head almost proudly.
“I ain’t what yer might think,” she said. “I ain’t done nothin’ wus than starve. They turned me off at the factory, but it weren’t no fault o’ mine.”
“Weren’t ye drunk?” asked the boy simply.
“Drunk!” said she. “I ain’t never been drunk in my life.” And she moved from him.
“I beg yer pardon,” he stammered. “It’s what they turn me off for—but o’ course ... I beg yer pardon!”
“Granted,” said she. “It’s likely ye should think so. But my dead mother might see me and welcome, for all the ’arm I’ve a-done, and that’s the truth!”
He shivered at the words and looked round.
She looked at him and came a step nearer, but the sob that had risen in her throat at his unintentional insult had turned to a fit of coughing, and she could not speak.
He turned quickly to the hearth, and kicked the bits of stick together with his foot; but there was no more life in them, they were burnt out, and there were no more.
“Ye’re catchin’ yer death o’ cold,” repeated he testily. “I dursen’t advise ye to stop ’ere no longer. Let me show ye the way to the next village, if ye’re a stranger to the place. Leastways, I think there’s a parcel o’ ’ouses afore ye come to it, where ye might get a night’s lodgin’.”
She laughed harshly, and he stopped—confused.
“’Aven’t ye got no money?” asked he after a minute or two, timidly.
“No,” she answered, struggling fiercely with tears again. “I’ve been out o’ work this three weeks. Ye’d ha’ done best to leave me where I was!”
“Don’t say that,” said he quite gently. “The luck’s bound to turn.”
She stood quietly wiping a tear now and then, and he beside her turning his hand round and round in his breeches pocket.
At last he pulled the hand out and held it towards her: there was a silver coin in it.
“Ye’d best take it,” said he sheepishly. “I ’ad my week’s wage to-day, though they _’ave_ a-turned me off, and I can spare it nicely. It’ll get ye a bed and a bit o’ supper anyways.”
Her face flushed and her lip quivered again. But she took it.
“Ye’re very kind,” said she. “I ought to thank ye, I’m sure. If mother was alive...”
Her voice shook, and she didn’t finish the sentence.
He stepped to the hearth and took up her wretched little jacket that had lain there a-drying, handing it to her clumsily. Her last words echoed in his ears.