“No.”
“Sithee — I made thee a drop o’ hot milk. Get it down thee; it’s cold enough for owt.”
Paul drank it.
After a while Morel went to bed. He hurried past the closed door, and left his own door open. Soon the son came upstairs also. He went in to kiss her goodnight, as usual. It was cold and dark. He wished they had kept her fire burning. Still she dreamed her young dream. But she would be cold.