She and another woman sat by the fire talking under their breaths.

A kettle was beside her with a long spout, which sent the steam far into the room, keeping the air of it moist and warm for the poor bronchitic old man who lay close-curtained from the draughts on the wooden bed in the corner.
The kettle sang, the fire crackled, and the wind shook the windows and doors.

But suddenly, through the other sounds, Margaret was aware of an intermittent knocking--a low, hesitating sound, as of some one outside afraid, and yet eager, to make himself heard.
She started up, and her companion--a homely neighbour, one of those persons whose goodness had, perhaps, helped to shape poor Margaret's philosophy of life--looked round with a scared expression.
'Whoiver can it be, this time o' neet ?' said Margaret--and she looked at the old clock--'why, it's close on middle-neet!' She hesitated a moment, then she went to the door, and bent her mouth to the chink-- 'Who are yo?
What d' yo want ?' she asked, in a distinct but low voice, so as not to disturb 'Lias.
No answer for a minute.

Then her ear caught some words from outside.

With an exclamation she unlocked the door and threw it open.
'Davy! Davy!' she cried, almost forgetting her patient.
The boy clung to the lintel without a word.
'Coom your ways in!' she said peremptorily, catching him by the sleeve.