She hurried him into the further corner of the cottage, where he was out of sight of the bed.

There she quickly stripped him of his wet garments, as any mother might have done, found an old flannel shirt of 'Lias's for him, and, wrapping him close in a blanket, she made him lie down on her own bed, he being now much too weak to realise what was done with him.
Then she got an empty bottle, filled it from the kettle, and put it to his feet; and finally she brought a bowlful of warm water and a bit of towel, and, sitting down by him, she washed the blood and dirt away from his face and hand, and smoothed down the tangled black hair.

She, too, noticed the smell of spirits, and shook her head over it; but her motherliness grew with every act of service, and when she had made him warm and comfortable, and he was dropping into the dead sleep of exhaustion, she drew her old hand tenderly across his brow.
'He do feature yan o' my own lads so as he lies theer,' she said tremulously to her friend at the fire, as though explaining herself.

'When they'd coom home late fro wark, I'd use to hull 'em up so mony a time.

Ay, I'd been woonderin what had coom to th' boy.
I thowt he'd been goin wrang soomhow, or he'd ha coom aw these weeks to see 'Lias an me.