ce；　as　harsh　as　her　features。

“I　don’t　care　about　it；　mother；　you　may　please　yourself：　but　I　ought　to　warn　you；　I　have　no　faith。”

“It’s　like　your　impudence　to　say　so：　I　expected　it　of　you；　I　heard　it　in　your　step　as　you　crossed　the　threshold。”

“Did　you？　You’ve　a　quick　ear。”

“I　have；　and　a　quick　eye　and　a　quick　brain。”

“You　need　them　all　in　your　trade。”

“I　do；　especially　when　I’ve　customers　like　you　to　deal　with。　Why　don’t　you　tremble？”

“I’m　not　cold。”

“Why　don’t　you　turn　pale？”

“I　am　not　sick。”

“Why　don’t　you　consult　my　art？”

“I’m　not　silly。”

The　old　crone　“nichered”　a　laugh　under　her　bon　and　bandage；　she　then　drew　out　a　short　black　pipe；　and　lighting　it　began　to　smoke。　Having　indulged　a　while　in　this　sedative；　she　raised　her　bent　body；　took　the　pipe　from　her　lips；　and　while　gazing　steadily　at　the　fire；　said　very　deliberately—“You　are　cold；　you　are　sick；　and　you　are　silly。”

“Prove　it；”　I　rejoined。

“I　will；　in　few　words。　You　are　cold；　because　you　are　alone：　no　contact　strikes　the　fire　from　you　that　is　in　you。　You　are　sick；　because　the　best　of　feelings；　the　highest　and　the　sweetest　given　to　man；　keeps　far　away　from　you。　You　are　silly；　because；　suffer　as　you　may；　you　will　not　beckon　it　to　approach；　nor　will　you　stir　one　step　to　meet　it　where　it　waits　you。”

She　again　put　her　short　black　pipe　to　her　lips；　and　renewed　her　smoking　with　vigour。

“You　might　say　all　that　to　al