Liz gave another enigmatical nod, and a faint, slow, melancholy smile
gathered about the lips of Teen as she sat down to her work again, after
having stirred the fire and pushed the dirty brown teapot on to the
coals. In this teapot a black decoction brewed all day, and was partaken
of at intervals by the two; sometimes they ate a morsel of bread to it,
but other sustenance they had none. Little wonder the face of Teen was
as cadaverous as the grave.

Then followed an awkward silence, during which Liz played with the
frayed edge of the blanket, and Teen stitched away for dear life at a
coarse garment, which appeared to be a canvas jacket. A whole pile of
the same lay on the unoccupied bed, and Gladys vaguely wondered whether
the same fingers must reduce the number, but she did not presume to ask.
She did not feel drawn to the melancholy seamstress, whose thin lips had
a hard, cold curve.

'Were you reading when I came in? I'm afraid I have stopped you,' said
Gladys at length.

'Ay, I was readin' to Teen "Lord Bellew's Bride; or the Curse of
Mountford Abbey." Splendid, isn't it, Teen?' said Liz quite brightly.
'We buy'd atween us every week. I'll len' ye'd, if ye like. It comes oot
on Wednesday. Wat could bring'd on the Monday.'

'Thank you very much,' said Gladys. 'I haven't much time; I have a great
deal to do in the house.'

'Hae ye? Ay, Wat telt me; an', michty! ye dinna look as if ye could dae
onything. The auld sinner, I'd pooshin him!'