He looked round the ghostly, deserted old home—at the figure huddled by the hearth where another had been wont to cook his meals, at the empty window where a familiar chair had once stood. “No more ’aven’t I,” he said. And after a pause he added with a half laugh, “P’raps ye ’aven’t even got no work?” “No,” she replied for the third time. And he laughed outright as he added again: “No more ’aven’t I!” He walked to the window, and she struggled to her feet. “So I guess ye _wanted_ to catch yer death,” he muttered. She stood hanging over the blaze that was beginning to flicker down, and he with his back to her at the window gazing out into the garden, where the moonlight lay white and hard on the frosted walk and on the dreary, empty potato patch. If his mother had been up-stairs she would have known what to do now. She had always known what to do somehow. And suddenly there crossed his mind a vision of her taking into the house a poor starved dog that had been hooted down the road by the village boys. Yes, she would have known what to do. But she was not up-stairs. “I s’pose there’s plenty as wouldn’t mind a-catchin’ their death,” murmured he, half to himself. “Folk as ’ave made a mess of it, or as ’aven’t got no one to work for.” 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. Her wan face flushed purple. “Drunk!” said she. “I ain’t never been drunk in my life.” And she moved from him. Then he flushed too—ashamed. “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. “I wish I could say as much,” said he. 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. He guessed her meaning. “’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.”