clothes and dripped from her at every step. She stood, however,
patiently holding the pail, and waiting.

"Hout, woman! ye look like a drowned cat. Come near to the
fire,"--said one of the men, approaching to scrape away the
ashes.

She shook her head. Wolfe had forgotten her. He turned,
hearing the man, and came closer.

"I did no' think; gi' me my supper, woman.

She watched him eat with a painful eagerness. With a woman's
quick instinct, she saw that he was not hungry,--was eating to
please her. Her pale, watery eyes began to gather a strange
light.

"Is't good, Hugh? T' ale was a bit sour, I feared."

"No, good enough." He hesitated a moment. "Ye're tired, poor
lass! Bide here till I go. Lay down there on that heap of ash,
and go to sleep."

He threw her an old coat for a pillow, and turned to his work.
The heap was the refuse of the burnt iron, and was not a hard
bed; the half-smothered warmth, too, penetrated her limbs,
dulling their pain and cold shiver.

Miserable enough she looked, lying there on the ashes like a
limp, dirty rag,--yet not an unfitting figure to crown the scene