its shadowy corners, and it was as if the frost of winter settled on her
young heart. The old man hung up his coat and hat behind the door, and,
opening the press, brought therefrom the half of a stale loaf, a plate
on which reposed a microscopic portion of highly-coloured butter, and a
scrap of cheese wrapped in paper. These he laid on the bare table, where
the dust lay white.

'Eat a mouthful, child, and then we'll get to bed,' he said. 'You'll
need to sleep here in my bed to-night, and I'll go to the back room,
where there's an old sofa. On Monday I'll get some things, and you can
have that room for yourself. Tired, eh?'

Uncle Abel's spirits rose to find himself at home, and the child's sank
lower at the prospect stretching out before her.

'No--that is, not very. It seems very long since morning.'

'Ay, it's been a longish day. Never mind; tomorrow's Sunday, and we
needn't get up before ten or eleven.'

'Don't you go to church, Uncle Abel?'

'Sometimes in the afternoon, or at night. Oh, there are plenty of
churches; they grow as thick as mushrooms, and do about as much good.
Won't you eat?'

The fare was not inviting; nevertheless, Gladys did her best to swallow
a few morsels, because she really felt faint and weak. It did not occur
to the miser that he might kindle a cheerful spark of fire to give her a
welcome, and to make her a cup of tea. He was not less cold and hungry