The Old House in the City by Agnes Giberne

THE last crust was eaten; the last farthing was expended; the last piece of firing was burnt; and Job Kippis sat, with his sinewy hands lying idle upon his knees, and his eyes gazing into the empty grate.

It was a cold day-bitterly cold. The wind wailed and howled round the old building, sending piercing gusts through every cranny. Snow had been falling off and on for hours, in small flakes, and every housetop bore a white covering. What a contrast between it and the grimy walls around!