Antony Dart knelt down on the
hearth and drew matches from his
pocket.
"We ought to have brought some
paper," he said.
Glad ran forward.
"Wot a gent ye are!" she cried.
"Y' ain't never goin' to light it?"
"Yes."
She ran back to the rickety table
and collected the scraps of paper
which had held her purchases.
They were small, but useful.
"That wot was round the sausage
an' the puddin's greasy," she
exulted.
Polly hung over the table and
trembled at the sight of meat and
bread. Plainly, she did not
understand what was happening. The
greased paper set light to the wood,
and the wood to the coal. All three
flared and blazed with a sound of
cheerful crackling. The blaze threw
out its glow as finely as if it had been
set alight to warm a better place.
The wonder of a fire is like the
wonder of a soul. This one changed
the murk and gloom to brightness,
and the deadly damp and cold to
warmth. It drew the girl Polly
from the table despite her fears.
She turned involuntarily, made two
steps toward it, and stood gazing
while its light played on her face.
Glad whirled and ran to the hearth.
"Ye've put on a lot," she cried;
"but, oh, my Gawd, don't it warm
yer! Come on, Polly--come on."
She dragged out a wooden stool,
an empty soap-box, and bundled the
sacks into a heap to be sat upon. She
swept the things from the table and
set them in their paper wrappings on
the floor.
"Let's all sit down close to it--
close," she said, "an' get warm an'
eat, an' eat.
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