For there on a wooden rocking chair, which had been her mothers favorite seat, sat Mary Backhouse, her feet on the curved brass fender, her eyes staring into the parlor grate.

Her clothes, her face, her attitude of cowering chill and mortal fatigue, produced an impression which struck through the old man's dull senses, and made him tremble so that his hand dropped from the handle of the door.

The slight sound roused Mary, and she turned toward him.

She said nothing for a few seconds, her hollow black eyes fixed upon him; then with a ghastly smile, and a voice so hoarse as to be scarcely audible, 'Weel, aa've coom back.

Ye'd maybe not expect me ?' There was a sound behind on the cobbles outside the kitchen door.
'Yur feyther!' cried Jim between his teeth.