grimed hands by the open stove-doors. What a picture we make in the fantastic grouping of fire-light and candle-light; bright, clean little beds, heavily-corded trunks, a pleasant child's face, the dark, barn-looking roof, into which we can only trace objects dimly and fitfully as the fire burns up brightly or fades through want of fuel; and, standing in the background, the carroty-haired youth, with gray clothes, and felt hat drawn down over his eyes. The little man seems loth to go. We want our supper, and he wants sympathy, and asks it, creeping closer to the fire, for the nights are damp. He must tell me, in tedious detail, how sick he has been in his shop, with no one to care for him ; and, child-like, goes back to his native home in Ohio, tells me all his little troubles, and how he always told his mother, in his letters home, that his health was very good, it would make her so unhappy to hear anything else. Out into the darkness went the little man, with a pleasant "Good night" from those who gladly made a light supper, and put themselves into a night position.
How much like sleeping out doors it seemed!
