The warm grasp of the rough woman's coarse hand and the genuine sympathy in her eyes were too much for Harry Vine. Weak from mental trouble-- more weak from hunger--manhood, self-respect, everything passed from him as he sank upon one of the hard pieces of weedy rock; and as the woman bent over him and laid her hands upon his shoulder, he flung his arms about her, let his head sink upon her breast, and cried like a child. "Why, my poor, poor boy!" she said tenderly, with her hard wooden stay busk creaking in front, and her maund basket creaking behind, "don't-- don't cry like that, or--or--or--there, I knew I should," she sobbed, as her tears came fast, and her voice sounded broken and hoarse. "There, what an old fool I am! Now, look here; you want to hide for a bit, just as if it was brandy or a bit o' lace." "Yes, Poll; yes." "Then wait till it's dark, and then come on to my cottage." "No, no," he groaned; "I dare not." "And you that cold and hungry?" "I've tasted nothing but the limpets since that night." "Limpets!" she cried, with a tone of contempt in her voice, "why they ain't even good for bait. And there are no mussels here. Look here, my dear lad, I've got a lobster. No, no; it's raw. Look here; you go back to where you hide, and I'll go and get you something to eat, and be back as soon as I can." "You will?" he said pitifully. "Course I will." "And you'll keep my secret?" "Now don't you say that again, my lad, because it aggravates me. There, you go back and wait, and if I don't come again this side of ten o'clock Poll Perrow's dead!" She bent down, kissed his cold forehead, and hurried back among the rocks, splashing and climbing, till he saw her begin to ascend the narrow rift in the cliff; and in a few minutes the square basket, which looked like some strange crustacean of monstrous size creeping out of the sea and up the rocks, disappeared in the gathering gloom; and Harry Vine, half-delirious from hunger, crept slowly back into the cave, half wondering whether it was not all a dream. CHAPTER FORTY SIX. THE FRIEND OF ADVERSITY. It was a dream from which he was aroused three hours later--a wild dream of a banquet served in barbaric splendour, but whose viands seemed to be snatched from his grasp each time he tried to satisfy the pangs which seemed to gnaw him within. He had fallen into a deep sleep, in which he had remained conscious of his hunger, though in perfect ignorance of what had taken place around. His first thought was of capture, for his head was clear now, and he saw a rough hand as he gazed up wildly at a dim horn lantern. The dread was but momentary, for a rough voice full of sympathy said:-- "There, that's right. Sit up, my dear, and keep the blankets round you. They're only wet at one corner. I did that bringing them in. There, drink that!" He snatched at the bottle held to him, and drank with avidity till it was drawn away.