One hand was in his pocket, fumbling over the few pennies yet remaining there.
As if drawn by an attraction he could not resist, his eyes kept turning to the spot where Andy lay sleeping.

Once, as they came back, they rested on the mug from which the child had taken his supper of bread and milk.
"Poor little fellow!" came from his lips, in a tone of pity.
Then he sat down by the table and leaned his head on his hand.

His face was toward the corner of the room where the child lay.

He still fumbled the small coins in his pocket, but after a while his fingers ceased to play with them, then his hand was slowly withdrawn from the pocket, a deep sigh accompanying the act.
After the lapse of several minutes he took up the candle, and going over to the bed, crouched down and let the light fall on Andy's face.

The large forehead, soiled as it was, looked white to the man's eyes, and the brown matted hair, as he drew it through his fingers, was soft and beautiful.