'You are sick and it is no weather for a sick man.' I stumbled after her and stood dripping in the centre of the little kitchen, while three wondering children stared at me.

It was a poor place, scantily furnished, but a good log-fire burned on the hearth.
The shock of warmth gave me one of those minutes of self-possession which comes sometimes in the middle of a fever.
'I am sick, mother, and I have walked far in the storm and lost my way.
I am from Africa, where the climate is hot, and your cold brings me fever.

It will pass in a day or two if you can give me a bed.' 'You are welcome,' she said; 'but first I will make you coffee.' I took off my dripping cloak, and crouched close to the hearth.

She gave me coffee--poor washy stuff, but blessedly hot.

Poverty was spelled large in everything I saw.