The daily suns of years had shed no brighter gleam of reason on his mind; no dawn had broken on his long, dark night.

He would sit sometimes--often for days together on a low seat by the fire or by the cottage door, busy at work (for he had learnt the art his mother plied), and listening, God help him, to the tales she would repeat, as a lure to keep him in her sight.

He had no recollection of these little narratives; the tale of yesterday was new to him upon the morrow; but he liked them at the moment; and when the humour held him, would remain patiently within doors, hearing her stories like a little child, and working cheerfully from sunrise until it was too dark to see.
At other times,--and then their scanty earnings were barely sufficient to furnish them with food, though of the coarsest sort,--he would wander abroad from dawn of day until the twilight deepened into night.

Few in that place, even of the children, could be idle, and he had no companions of his own kind.

Indeed there were not many who could have kept up with him in his rambles, had there been a legion.