“She didn’t ought to be ’ere,” he muttered to himself; “it’s freezin’ plaguey ’ard, and she soaked through.” “D’ye think ye can walk?” said he to her ear. She did not answer, and he scratched his head. Then suddenly an inspiration came to him. He knew a way into the old home by the back; it would be empty and cheerless, but it would be safer than the frosty night air, and maybe he might be lucky enough to find a morsel of old wood with which he might light a bit of a fire. It was worth trying, and without more ado he took the poor thing in his arms, and stumbled up the meadow with her. She was light enough in all conscience, and she lay passive. Yes, the rotten old door was broken, as he last remembered it, and he pushed it open and bore her in. The place was bare, but he lay her down beside the cold hearth, with her head against the chimney-corner, and ran to the outhouse. The luck was with him to-night as it was not wont to be: there were some remnants of brushwood scattered about; he swept together a handful, and with the matches that luckily were safe and dry in the pocket of the coat he had cast off, he soon kindled a bit of a blaze in the forsaken old dwelling-room. Then he hung her jacket to dry and set to work again to rub her body. The warmth revived her, she crept as close as she could to it, shivering still. He took out the bottle again, his best notion of help; but she shook her head at the sight of it, and a sudden idea struck him. “When did ye ’ave yer food last?” he asked. She did not answer. “Maybe ye’re ’ungry?” he said. And as she was still silent, he turned out his pockets again, and produced a broken bit of dry crust. “It’s all I left o’ my dinner,” he said, “but it’ll stay yer stomach till ye can get ’ome.” She let him put it into her hand, but she did not eat. “It’s a queer thing,” said he ruminatingly, “women don’t seem to ’ave no pecker when they ain’t fit.” She shivered again. “Now, look ’ere,” said he, drawing out the spirit bottle once more, “ye’ve got to have another go at this or I’m damned, and then ye’ve got to eat that crust.” He forced it on her, and she submitted, and then he added: “And as soon as ye can walk ye ought to go ’ome. Ye’ll catch yer death in them damp clothes.” She was silent, and he stood watching her nibbling the crust, while he took a pull at the spirit himself. A notion seemed to occur to him, and he paused with the flask in his hand. “What did ye go and jump into the water for?” he said at last, perhaps thinking that what she _wanted_ was to “catch her death.” And as still she was dumb, he added another to the string of his questions: “Where d’ye live?” Then at last she answered. “Nowhere,” said she bitterly. He started. “What, ain’t ye got no ’ome?” asked he. “No,” she said. He whistled. “No more ’aven’t I,” he said. “Nor yet no mother?” he added in a low voice after a while. “No,” she said.