the knife, an’ the cup,” he said. He struck a match.

“Th’ cup’s not broke.” He put it into the box.

“But th’ oil’s spilled out o’ th’ lamp. It always was a rotten old thing.” He hastily blew out his match, which was burning his fingers. Then he struck another light.

“You don’t want a lamp, you know you don’t, and I s’ll be going directly, so you come an’ lie down an’ get your night’s rest. I’m not taking any of your place.”

He looked at her by the light of another match. She was a queer little bundle, all brown, with gaudy border folding in and out, and her little face peering at him.