Very cool and sweet was the kitchen, with white-washed walls and hard
earthen floor. A table and a settle stood by the window, and a dresser
that was an armory of bright pewter dishes, trenchers, and piggins
crossed the opposite wall.

"Nay, but sista here, laal man," said the old charcoal-burner, and he
dived into a great pocket at his side.

"Have you brought it? Is it the kitten? Oh, dear, let the boy see it!"

A kitten came out of the old man's pocket, and was set down on the rug
at the hearth. The timid creature sat dazed, then raised itself on its
hind legs and mewed.

"Where's Ralphie? Is he watching it, father? What is he doing?"

The little one had dropped on hands and knees before the kitten, and was
gazing up into its face.

The mother leaned over him with a face that would have beamed with
sunshine if the sun of sight had not been missing.

"Is he looking? Doesn't he want to coddle it?"

The little chap had pushed his nose close to the nose of the kitten, and
was prattling to it in various inarticulate noises.

"Boo--loo--lal-la--mamma."

"Isn't he a darling, father?"

"It's a winsome wee thing," said the old man, still standing with
drooping head over the group on the hearth.

The mother's face saddened, and she turned away. Then from the opposite
side of the kitchen, where she was making pretense to take plates from a
plate-rack, there came the sound of suppressed sobs. The old man's eyes
followed her.

"Nay, lass; let's have a sup of broth," he said in a tone that carried
another message.

The young woman put plates and a bowl of broth on the table.

"To think that I can never see my own child, and everybody else can see
him!" she said, and then there was another bout of tears.

The charcoal-burner supped at his broth in silence. A glistening bead
rolled slowly down his wizened cheek, and the interview on the hearth
went on without interruption:

"Mew--mew--mew." "Boo--loo--lal-la--mamma."

There was a foot on the gravel in front.

"How fend ye, Mattha?" said a voice from without.

"Come thy ways, Gubblum," answered the old man.

Gubblum Oglethorpe entered, dressed differently than of old. He wore a
suit of canvas stained deeply with iron ore.

"I's thinking maybe Mercy will let me warm up my poddish," said Gubblum.

"And welcome," said Mercy, and took down from the dresser a saucepan and
porridge thivel. "I'll make it for you while father sups his broth."

"Nay, lass, you