"Bish! bish! my chicken, you will wake him." He moved the candle so that his own head might intervene between it and the sleeper's face; and, smoothing his newspaper, he adjusted his spectacles to read.
The child's grey-black eyes rested on the figure on the bed, then turned to the German, then rested on the figure again.
"I think he is a liar.

Good night, Uncle Otto," she said slowly, turning to the door.
Long after she had gone the German folded his paper up methodically, and put it in his pocket.
The stranger had not awakened to partake of the soup, and his son had fallen asleep on the ground.

Taking two white sheepskins from the heap of sacks in the corner, the old man doubled them up, and lifting the boy's head gently from the slate on which it rested, placed the skins beneath it.
"Poor lambie, poor lambie!" he said, tenderly patting the great rough bear-like head; "tired is he!" He threw an overcoat across the boy's feet, and lifted the saucepan from the fire.

There was no place where the old man could comfortably lie down himself, so he resumed his seat.

Opening a much-worn Bible, he began to read, and as he read pleasant thoughts and visions thronged on him.
"I was a stranger, and ye took me in," he read.
He turned again to the bed where the sleeper lay.
"I was a stranger." Very tenderly the old man looked at him.