Hugh told me never to
stay me-lone."
"Hugh?"
"Yes."
A vexed frown crossed her face. The girl saw it, and added quickly,--
"I have not seen Hugh the day, Deb. The old man says his watch lasts
till the mornin'."
The woman sprang up, and hastily began to arrange some bread and flitch
in a tin pail, and to pour her own measure of ale into a bottle. Tying
on her bonnet, she blew out the candle.
"Lay ye down, Janey dear," she said, gently, covering her with the old
rags. "Hur can eat the potatoes, if hur 's hungry."
"Where are ye goin', Deb? The rain 's sharp."
"To the mill, with Hugh's supper."
"Let him hide till th' morn. Sit ye down."
"No, no,"--sharply pushing her off. "The boy'll starve."
She hurried from the cellar, while the child wearily coiled herself up
for sleep. The rain was falling heavily, as the woman, pail in hand,
emerged from the mouth of the alley, and turned down the narrow street,
that stretched out, long and black, miles before her. Here and there a
flicker of gas lighted an uncertain space of muddy footwalk and gutter;
the long rows of houses, except an occasional lager-bier shop, were
closed; now and then she met a band of mill-hands skulking to or from
their work.
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