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her where she could hang her outer-clothes to dry, signed to her and
the old man to lie down and sleep. For himself, he took his station on
a rugged mat before the furnace-door, and resting his chin upon his
hands, watched the flame as it shone through the iron chinks, and
the white ashes as they fell into their bright hot grave below.
The warmth of her bed, hard and humble as it was, combined with the
great fatigue she had undergone, soon caused the tumult of the place
to fall with a gentler sound upon the child's tired ears, and was not
long in lulling her to sleep. The old man was stretched beside her, and
with her hand upon his neck she lay and dreamed.
It was yet night when she awoke, nor did she know how long, or for
how short a time, she had slept. But she found herself protected, both
from any cold air that might find its way into the building, and from
the scorching heat, by some of the workmen's clothes; and glancing at
their friend saw that he sat in exactly the same attitude, looking with
a fixed earnestness of attention towards the fire, and keeping so very
still that he did not even seem to breathe. She lay in the state between
sleeping and waking, looking so long at his motionless figure that at
length she almost feared he had died as he sat there; and softly rising
and drawing close to him, ventured to whisper in his ear.
He moved, and glancing from her to the place she had lately occupied,
as if to assure himself that it was really the child so near him, looked
inquiringly into her face.
'I feared you were ill,' she said. 'The other men are all in motion, and
you are so very quiet.'
'
They leave me to myself,' he replied. 'They know my humour. They
laugh at me, but don't harm me in it. See yonder there - that's my
friend.'
'
'
The fire?' said the child.
It has been alive as long as I have,' the man made answer. 'We talk
and think together all night long.'
The child glanced quickly at him in her surprise, but he had turned
his eyes in their former direction, and was musing as before.
'
It's like a book to me,' he said - 'the only book I ever learned to read;
and many an old story it tells me. It's music, for I should know its
voice among a thousand, and there are other voices in its roar. It has
its pictures too. You don't know how many strange faces and different
scenes I trace in the red-hot coals. It's my memory, that fire, and
shows me all my life.'
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