OOK 'ere," said a low voice, "be a good boy, and don't cry, and then I'll see if I can't get yer somethin' or other to eat."
"But I'm 'ungry, Cherry," whispered the little one in answer, frightened by former experiences into keeping his woe within bounds, "and it's all cold and dark 'ere. I wish you'd take me to mother."
A sharp pang shot across Cherry's heart, and she answered in a voice that held a sob only just restrained from breaking forth, "I can't, Dickie, you know as I can't. I would in a minute if I could; mother's gone a long way off."
"In a train?" whispered Dickie.
Cherry nodded. What did it matter, so that Dickie was pacified? she thought.
"She promised as she'd take me," he said again, "and she never has. She never went a long way from Dickie 'afore."
"No," whispered Cherry again, "no more she did from Cherry; but she couldn't help herself—mother couldn't. She was took."
Dickie turned round wearily, and his little sister smoothed his hair and cheek, till by-and-by his gentle breathing told her that he was at last asleep.
Then she raised herself a little and looked round stealthily.
The room in which she lay was a good-sized one, and in each of the four corners, heaped together for warmth, the different members of four different families were huddled. Tattered rugs, shawls, and rags covered them from the biting February cold, and a flickering nightlight on a box in the middle of the room was the only gleam that revealed the shadowy misery congregated there.
Though the poor little brother was asleep, and Cherry herself sorely needed repose, she still kept her wearied eyes open, watching the door fearfully. At last, overcome by fatigue, she forgot everything, till a slight moan from Dickie brought her back to the present, and she heard a voice close at her elbow say thickly—
"Well, yer can 'ave him: the worst on't is the gal; she'll take on if I say yes, awful."
The words were spoken in a rough sort of undertoneby a man who seemed by the sound of his voice to have been drinking heavily.
The answer, from a woman who was already settling herself to sleep in her corner near, came in a hard distinct whisper—
"Never mindher! She'll fret a bit, but that'll be the end on it. She can't do nothing. Anybody 'ud know as 'tis better for 'im to be fed and clothed than left 'ere to starve."
The man addressed was sensible of a sort of flash of memory, and a picture came up before his eyes.
A neat, quiet home; an invalid wife sitting in a chair by the fire, tenderly holding a little frail boy; a crippled girl standing with her hand in the child's; a low hoarse voice pleading, "You'll take care of 'em, Tom! You'll let that dreadful drink alone, and feed them as are so helpless instead!"
That was the picture, and as Tom heard the woman say what she proposed "was better than starving," he knew in his heart how cruelly he had broken the promise he had made to his dying wife.
"I'll take 'im right away up to the attic if ye like," the woman went on, "and then," indicating Cherry by a movement of her hand, "she won't hear nor see nothink."
The man shook his head.
"One thing, she do keep 'im quiet when we don'twant 'im. And if she makes a fuss I'll find a way to shut 'er mouth; that I will, don't yer fear."
Cherry lay and quaked. Well she knew all that was implied in this low-toned conversation, both towards her little brother and herself. But she too had seen, as by a flash, another scene. A woman on a dying bed, whispering with an earnestness which impressed every word on her child's memory, "Cherry, if you're in any trouble, tell Jesus—ask Him to help you. Oh, Cherry, if I did not know you love Him, my heart would break. Jesus, will help you. Tell Dickie that I always said that."
Cherry thought of it now, at first with a hopeless feeling that things had been so bad for so long that she feared Jesus did not hear; and then with a rebound she determined never to give up what her beloved and dying mother had bequeathed to her. "She always spoke true," she thought, with a sudden lightening of her terrible burden, and her head nestled against Dickie's with a certain dim belief that rescue of some sort would come some day.
The crowded inhabitants of the room had one by one sunk into slumber; even her father had ceased tossing about and swearing at all around him. Still Cherry lay broad awake, thinking over all the events of the last year, and remembering now with a sort of awe how shehadcalled upon her Lord Jesus last May, when things had been so dreadfully bad with little Dickie, and how He had heard her, and hadsent Dickie a long and dangerous illness, which had made him quite unable to be taken out on hire with old Sairy as heretofore.
She remembered now with thankfulness, though she had not looked upon it as the answer at the time, that somehow the kind carpenter who had been repairing their wretched room had taken notice of Dickie, and had given him a blanket and some grapes, and how his wife had brought him many a nice meal from their table.
Cherry's life was so hard that she had taken all that happened, both bad and good, with a sort of apathy; but to-night it all came over her afresh, and she realized that this had perhaps been the way her Lord Jesus had answered her despairing prayer for little Dickie.
Then she would pray again; and this time instead of asking only for him to be taken away from the cruel woman everybody called "old Sairy," she would pray that he might have a nice home, and love and care.
Cherry did not say those words, but in her simple language she asked what she wanted, and after that, with a strange sense of the burden lifted on to shoulders which were very strong, she closed her eyes and at last fell asleep.
And even the next day, when Dickie woke, and old Sairy handed him a piece of bread, Cherry took the matter with equanimity, saying to herself over andover again, "I've told Jesus, and He's goin' to see to it."
But when Dickie had eaten the bread ravenously, he turned his little face back again to Cherry's shoulder, and said with a shudder, "Don't yer let me go 'long o' them, Cherry, don't yer!" Then Cherry's heart misgave her, and she looked at her still sleeping father, and then at old Sairy, as if to measure her possibility of resistance.
But Sairy gave her a glance which withered her up, like the raw February air which was rushing in at the open door, and hissed out in an undertone which made her shiver, "If yer don't mind what yer about, it 'ull be the worse for'im, and that I tell yer."
An hour after, when she saw them set off as of old, the man with Dickie, and old Sairy with somebody's wailing baby, her heart died within her.
The room had almost cleared. Only a weakly young mother with her babe were left, and two sleeping drunken men.
As Cherry lifted her heavy sorrowful eyes they met those of the woman.
"Come 'ere, dear," she said gently; "don't you take on about the little 'un. It won't 'urt 'im to be out o' doors, and if you 'aven't food to give 'im, ain't it a deal better as they should feed 'im? I 'eard what them two said last night, and it's true as he's pretty nigh starvin'."
"Yes, but you don't know," whispered Cherry, looking round fearfully; "if it was only taking him out I shouldn't care; but—"
At this moment her father roused up and shook himself.
"Eh, gal, so they're gone?" with a coarse laugh; "and to-night we'll get a bit of supper, and some'ut to drink."
Page 136."Then the woman seizes Dickie again, and begins to tie somethin' on his eyes, and he fights and screams with all his little might."—p. 136.
ARCH was nearly over, when one night Jem woke to see Meg standing at the window. It was moonlight, and he could see her outline distinctly against the bright sky.
"Is anything the matter, Meg?" he asked anxiously.
"Hush!" exclaimed Meg earnestly. "Jem, night after night I hear the same. I thought it must be my fancy, but I'm certain it's not. There! can't you hear those screams?"
Jem got up and came to the window, more with the intention of soothing Meg than of listening to his neighbours. He had too long been used to London sights and sounds to be alarmed at a little crying in the night.
Meg held her breath, and on the night air werecertainly borne unmistakable cries of some child, either in great fear or pain.
"Jem!" said Meg again in a frightened whisper, "which house did you say Dickie used to live in?"
"D'ye mean Dickie's attic?"
"Yes; where we went," said Meg, with her teeth chattering.
"Get into bed!" he implored. "Meg, you'll catch your death o' cold, my dear. I'll stay and listen here, if it 'ull do any good."
Meg retreated, and Jem gazed out into the dimness. Still he could hear what had so affected Meg, and as he looked, and his eyes became accustomed to the moonlight, which could not shine down into the depths of the courtyard below, but still shed a hazy light on it all, he began to see which-were-which of the houses behind; and could trace—there the back windows of a certain public-house—there the blank darkness of an empty building—and there the twinkling lights in houses which he knew to be general lodgings.
It was from one of these he fancied, up the next court, that the cries came; and as he stood reckoning it up, he turned to Meg and said,
"ItisDickie's attic, I believe! There's a light there, and people movin' back and forwards. Perhaps some one's ill."
"No," said Meg, sitting up, "it's nobody ill. It's some child being beaten or hurt. Oh, Jem,couldyou go and see—could you get in there, do you think?"
"Not to-night, my girl. But to-morrow I'll see if I can hear anything of it. It's the house where I worked, so they'll know me most like, and not think I'm intrudin' on 'em."
"Jem! that blanket weighs on me," said Meg with a sob. "Those children ought to have had it all this time; but whenever I've been up to the attic to see, the people have been so rough to me, and the other rooms were all let out to several families in each."
"I know," said Jem, coming away from the window, "and very likely he'd have took the children elsewhere, especially if he didn't want you to interfere with 'em, Meg."
Poor Meg, with a weary sigh she lay down on her pillow and tried to sleep. The house where they fancied the sound came from was so near theirs at right angles, that a conversation could be carried on from the back windows if any one had chosen.
As Meg lay wakeful and sad, she fancied she could still hear the cries, growing fainter and fainter, till either they ceased, or Meg ceased to be able to catch them.
The next morning Jem and she consulted as to what could be done; Jem averring, very truly, that "folks wouldn't stand people coming to make inquiries after crying children."
"I should not so much mind if it were not for Cherry's hints," said Meg; "but, Jem, I could make something, or you could buy a few oranges to take in your hand, and say you had brought them for Dickie if you could find him. Would that do?"
Jem promised to do his best, and went to his work revolving the matter in his mind. He bade a tender adieu to his wife, looked in her pale face, and told her she must not worry, but remember what she had tried to teach Mrs. Blunt—to cast her burden on the Lord, and find anew that He would sustain her.
He hastened away, and Meg cleared her table, and went up-stairs to speak to her mother-in-law.
It could not have been more than half-an-hour afterwards that she and Mrs. Seymour were coming down together, and Meg had just reached the bottom step at her own landing, when a man's voice was heard asking in a loud voice as he came up—
"Does any one live here belonging to a man of the name of Seymour?"
"Yes," answered Meg and her mother both together.
"Because he's been run over near the Monument, and they've taken him to 'Guy's.'"
Meg gave one wild look at her mother, held out her arms to catch something, and fell fainting on the floor.
Towards afternoon Meg opened her eyes at the sound of a beloved voice.
"My girl," he said, "don't ye know me? Look up, sweetheart! Here's Jem. And look what we've got sent us from our God! Meg, my girl, it was not your Jem as was hurt."
Meg gave a faint smile, and then she saw her mother-in-law bending over her, and putting into Jem's hand a spoon with something to give her.
She allowed him to feed her, and when the cup was empty she whispered—
"Jem, I thought——"
"You must not talk, my little woman; but now you're a bit better, would you like to see our little child? He was sent to us while you were so ill."
Meg tried to hold out her arms, but failed, and her mother-in-law laid a little babe in them. Meg said not a word, but pressed a kiss upon Jem's hand, and endeavoured to reach the downy little head. But she had no strength, and Mrs. Seymour, seeing her wish, and knowing too something else which neither of them guessed, raised the babe a little, that its mother's lips might touch its tiny face.
Meg was satisfied, and closed her eyes to sleep. "Husband and child," she thought, "who could be richer?" And then another thought came to rest her with its sweetness—"Who for your sakes became poor, that ye, through His poverty, might be rich."
Meg's lips moved, and Jem bent over her to hear.
"We'll teach him about Jesus first of all, Jem," she murmured; and as Jem assented, she slept.
But the little one was to be taken into the Shepherd's care at once. Meg was never to have her desire of herself teaching him the name she loved beyond all others.
Mrs. Seymour stood by and watched, unwilling to break the slumber which was like life to Meg, and knowing that nothing could be done for the babe better than lying in its mother's bosom.
And Jem sat watching too, realizing in a dim sort of way that he was indeed a father.
By-and-by his mother touched him on the shoulder.
"Jem," she whispered, cautioning him by a warning glance, "God is taking the little one to Himself; but I think Meg will do well if we can but keep her quiet."
Jem gave one look at her to take in the meaning of her words, and then he sat still, trying to realize and submit to what his God was sending.
When, after two long hours of watching on their part, and deep refreshing sleep on Meg's, she again opened her eyes and turned to her babe, the little spirit had already taken flight to the land where "their angels do alway behold the face of the Father which is in heaven."
"Meg, my girl," said Jem's voice, oh, so tenderly, "you'd be willin' to give him up into our Saviour's care if He was to ask it?"
"I think I would," she answered in a wondering tone, but looking up quite collectedly.
"Because I think the Good Shepherd has been callin' him, my dear."
Meg could turn her head now; she raised herself on her elbow, and gazed at the little face.
"Jem," she said helplessly, and laid her head back on her pillow with a sob.
Her mother-in-law bent over her.
"Let me take him for a little while, my child; it will be better so."
Meg made no objection, and her mother lifted the tiny form to her lap, and crossed its wee hands on its breast.
"May it go in my cradle, just for once?" asked Meg beseechingly.
And so he was laid in the little cot that Meg had prepared with such loving hands, and Jem put it on a chair by her side; and then he sat down again by her, and they both wept together.
After a long time Meg wiped away her tears.
"Jem," she said softly, "I can say it now: 'The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away,blessedbe the name of the Lord.'"
Jem and his mother watched by her side till the clock in the other room struck twelve, and then Mrs. Seymour signed to him to go and take some rest.
But though not a word had been spoken nor a movement made, Meg started up.
"There it is again!"
"What, my dear?" asked Mrs. Seymour soothingly. "Lie down, and I'll see to it."
But Meg could not be silenced so.
"Jem," she urged, doing, however, as her mother wished, "Jem, you said you'd go and see about it. Oh, Jem dear, my heart will break!"
"I will, Meg," he answered at once. "You're bein' so ill put it out of my head. I'll go at once."
He rose, and his mother followed him out of the room.
"I think she's a bit light-headed, Jem; don't go out, my dear. What does she mean?"
"I know," answered Jem hurriedly. "Let me go, mother; I ought to have been there ever so long ago."
He went, and Meg lay wide awake listening. She took the gruel her mother brought her, and pronounced herself much better. Often her eyes rested on the little cot, but she did not cry, nor did she say anything about it.
Once she asked hesitatingly—
"Mother, did I dream it, or did some one say that Jem was dead?"
"It was a mistake," answered Mrs. Seymour, "a cruel carelessness. It was a man of the name of Seymour, who lives, we find, in the second house up the court, and people sent them here. 'Twas a cruel thing to say it out like that!"
Meg asked no more, and before long she heardJem's step coming up the stairs and entering the room.
He came softly to her bedside, and then, as if he could no longer bear it, he threw himself on his knees and wept bitterly.
Meg put out her hand and touched his head.
"Jem dear?" she questioned; while Mrs. Seymour laid a firm hand on his arm, and said gravely—
"Don't give way so, my son, or you'll worry her."
But Jem was wholly overcome.
"It might ha' been ours, it might ha' been ours!" he said, over and over again, till Mrs. Seymour was quite beside herself.
"Tell me, Jem," said Meg gently. "Have you found Dickie?"
He nodded.
"Was he being hurt?" she asked again.
He nodded again.
"How?"
Jem shivered.
"HowI shall never tell to mortal being!" he exclaimed; "but it was something they are doing to his eyes."
"His eyes?" said Meg, leaning up. "Oh, Jem, do tell me quick!"
"To make them bad, to get more money by begging," said Jem, as if the words were forced from him; "and his father's dying in the hospital, and he'll be left to their mercy!"
"Can't you fetch him here?" asked Meg.
Jem looked up.
"Meg! could we—now? You and me was talkin' of it this mornin'. They'll be orphans to-morrow."
Meg smiled a weak sweet smile as she looked towards the cot.
"Bring him if you can," she answered, "and Cherry too."
Mrs. Seymour could hardly follow the course of their thoughts, for she knew so little of what had gone before, and when Jem rose up and left the house for the second time, she was too astonished to protest.
This time he was gone longer than before, and Meg ate what her mother brought, and dozed quietly.
After some time his step was again heard, and he came quickly up.
Meg's eyes opened, and she listened intently. Yes, that was his step, and after it surely, surely, there was the halting one of poor little Cherry.
Jem opened the door and came softly in.
"Meg," he said, in a smothered voice, "God has sent us two little children instead of the one He's took to Himself. Here is Dickie for you to comfort."
Meg opened her arms, and Jem laid Dickie in them.
"No one shan't hurt you any more, Dickie, while we live," he said; "don't you have any more fear."
The child had given one rapid glance at Meg's face, and the moment he recognized her he nestled down confidently in her arms, while Cherry stood by with happy tears running down her cheeks.
"It's a solemn charge, Jem," said his mother.
"Cherry says she's been askin' Jesus to find a home for him for ever so long, and now it's come," answered Jem.
"Cherry, child," said Mrs. Seymour, "you come up with me, and I'll put you to bed, and to-morrow we'll talk it all over."
"Yes, to-morrow I must go and see their father at the hospital. I trust he'll live till then."
"You won't be 'fraid for 'Cherry' to go to bed, Dickie?" asked the little girl, looking down on him as he lay.
Dickie shook his head.
"I'll stay along of mo'ver-Meg," he said.
Jem sat down, quite overcome, and drew the trembling little Cherry within his kind arm.
Her eyes were wandering round the cosy bedroom, which reminded her so forcibly of her mother's; and when she saw the cot, she thought how lovely it would be to have a baby to hold. But when Jem saw her glance resting there he whispered softly, so as not to disturb Meg,
"The little 'un's gone to be with God, Cherry; you and Dickie is come to us instead."
Cherry's eyes filled with tears, and she laid herhead on Jem's kind shoulder, repressing her sobs by a great effort.
"Cherry," said Mrs. Seymour, "there's my bed up-stairs, you shall have a good sleep on that; come along, child, or it will be morning."
Cherry looked towards Dickie, as if even now loth to let him out of her sight.
"Stay," added Mrs. Seymour; "let's have a cup of tea first, and some bread and milk for Dickie. I dare say you haven't had much? I had just made some before you came."
Cherry shook her head.
Mrs. Seymour soon put a steaming cup into Jem's hand, and another into Cherry's. Then she cut some bread for them, and placed some in Meg's little saucepan for the child. After which she went to the bed and took him out, telling Meg she should soon have him again if she wished, but that he was hungry.
Meg was too tired and peaceful to say a word. "He does all things well," she thought, and lay quietly sleeping, not noticing the hushed noises which were going on around her.
She had no idea that Jem left her to lie down on the sofa in the next room; nor that her mother-in-law took little Dickie on her knee and fed him tenderly; nor that she bathed his eyes with warm water; nor that she refilled the baby's bath, and with Cherry's help undressed and bathed him.
"It is nice," said the poor little fellow, as the kind old woman sat with him on her lap before the fire, and slipped over his head a clean warm little nightgown brought down from her airing-horse up-stairs.
"It's Mrs. Blunt's," she explained to Cherry; "but I'm not a bit afraid but what she'll lend it to him for a night or two. Wasn't it fortunate that she happened to send it in amongst the sheets I do for her? She don't ever send me these sort of things, but this one came for the purpose, I do believe! Don't he look different?"
"He do indeed," answered poor little yawning Cherry. "I never see him look so nice since mother used to undress him. I did the best I could, ma'am, but it was so dreadful hard to keep 'im clean."
Mrs. Seymour shook her head kindly.
"I know it was, child," she said.
She was going to add that she did not know how her Jem was going to support two children; but a glance at Cherry's happy face stopped her, and she only added softly—
"You can wash your face and hands too, child, and then you shall go to bed."
"Are you goin' to bed?" whispered Cherry.
"Not to-night, my dear," glancing towards Meg, "but I'll doze a bit in this chair. Now, Dickie, shall I put you back in the nice warm bed with Meg, as I promised?"
Dickie nodded.
She rose, and opening the clothes as gently as she could, she put the clean warm little boy close to Meg's side.
Meg instantly felt him, and understood enough, without rousing herself, to say in a soft little tone of endearment—
"Come along, Dickie; you won't mind staying with me?"
"No; I'll stay along of mo'ver-Meg," said Dickie; and as he said it, he put his thin little arms about her neck and kissed her. Then without another word they both sank into dreamless slumber.
HEN Mrs. Seymour had placed the tired little Cherry in her own nice bed, and had made Miss Hobson understand in a few words who it was who would be found in the morning sharing her room, she returned to the next floor and looked round.
In the bedroom Meg and Dickie slept the sleep of the utterly weary, and leaving them for a moment she went to look after her son Jem.
He too slept soundly, though he had not undressed, but lay covered by a blanket on the sofa.
The clock on the mantel-piece pointed to two, the fire was out, and the room desolate.
Making her own determination, but leaving it for the present for fear of disturbing Jem, she went back to Meg. She stood by the side of the little cot and gazed long and earnestly at the face of her grandchild.
Her grandchild! How she had longed to welcome it! how she had counted on hearing its little feet patter about in her room! how she had yearned to see her Jem with his child on his knee!
Instead of that, a dead baby lay in the cradle; and in Meg's embrace slept a little stranger child, taken, as it were, out of the very gutter; and in Jem's arms had stood a little cripple, who might be a care to him all his days.
Mrs. Seymour could hardly believe that all this had happened in one day—that it could be only yesterday when she had felt that everything was going so well with the pair whom she loved better than herself.
She sat down in Meg's low chair, and looked into the fire with a troubled face. She argued to herself that Jem and Meg little knew the burden they were taking up; and even if they dimly understood it, they were not able to look into the future, and could not know what the years might bring.
While these thoughts were passing through her mind, she seemed to see something written across the fire as she gazed into it.
The words were familiar, and yet she could not make them out in their order. She shut her eyes, but still they came again, haunting her with a rebuke as thorough as it was gentle. Was it the Holy Spirit, who teaches all those who are wanting to do their Father's will?
"I was an hungered, and ye gave Me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave Me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took Me in. Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these My brethren, ye have done it unto Me."
"My Lord, have I grudged Thee?" she said, her old eyes dimmed with rare tears. "Oh, forgive me, and let me do my part towards taking Thee in!"
When the clock struck six she rose and softly went into the front room. With as little sound as possible she set Jem's breakfast, and lighted his fire; putting on the kettle and preparing his room against he should awake.
After that she made some gruel for her daughter, on the clear little fire she had noiselessly kept up all night, and when all was done, she decided it was time to wake Jem.
But when she entered his room again he was already up, all traces of fatigue gone from his face, and her own cheerful Jem stood before her.
She signed to him that Meg was still asleep, and closing the door behind her, she set about making the tea, Jem asking her in a low tone what sort of a night his wife had passed.
"Beautiful," said Mrs. Seymour; "she hasn't waked once since I put Dickie back; and while they're all asleep I want to talk to you, Jem. Shall we sit down and have a bit of breakfast, so as to be ready when we are wanted?"
Jem willingly complied, and began at once on the subject that was uppermost in his mother's thoughts.
"I dare say, mother, that you think as Meg and me must ha' gone crazy last night?"
"Ididthink so, but——"
"It wasn't so bad as that," Jem went on, smiling slightly, "for Meg and me has often talked about Dickie and Cherry; and Meg had said if she got through this, she should do her best to find 'em, and try to teach Cherry somethin' or 'nother to get her livin'."
Mrs. Seymour listened. She had intended to give her son a lecture on caution and rash haste, but since those words had shone out upon her, she could hear nothing but the tender "Inasmuch—ye have done it unto Me." How could she say anything after that?
"Of course we neither of us thought on it comin' all of a heap like this, mother; and we didn't guess as our Lord was goin' to take away with one hand while He gave with t'other! But it's His doin', and we ain't goin' to grumble. Meg said, 'Blessed be the name of the Lord,' and if she could say it, I won't be behind her."
Mrs. Seymour got up to poke the fire, and as she passed her son's chair, she bent and kissed his forehead in silence.
"Dear mother!" he said affectionately, "I knew as it 'ud be a sore trial to you; but——"
"Don't say a word more, Jem," she said; "I'll helpyou all I can, and after a bit we shall see how things turns out. If you decide to keep Cherry with you, and she is a good girl, I'll promise you as I'll let her share my bed; and there'll often be a bit of breakfast for her too. I 'ain't given so much to my Lord as that I can't spare a little more. I feel to-day as if I'd never done nothing for Him. 'Inasmuch'——!"
"That's right down kind o' you, mother. If you'd seen all as I saw last night, you'd find it easier to understand what I felt."
"Was it so bad, Jem? I never saw you take on like that before."
"Bad?" echoed Jem. "Why, mother, if any one'd 'a told me about it I wouldn't ha' given it credit.
"I went out last night more to pacify Meg than because I thought as I could do any good. The streets was mighty dark, 'cause ye know it was wet, and when I got to the door, I thought I'd got the right 'un, but I couldn't be sure. But when I pushed it open and listened, I could hear the crying, and up I went to the very top, as quiet as I could, wondering what on earth I could give as a excuse for bein' there if any one interfered with me.
"Nobody did. They was all settled in to bed, that is, those as had 'em. Leastways they was settled to sleep. As I got near the top there was a bit of light out of the door, and when I got to the landin' I just paused and took a look in.
"There was a man sittin' over a bit of fire, sulkylike; and there was a woman bustlin' about gettin' somethin'; and there was Cherry holdin' Dickie, and cryin' as if her heart would break. And while I looks the woman comes to her, and drags Dickie away, and when Cherry tries to hold her off from him, she lays it on to her with a stick till poor little Cherry lets go at last. Then the woman seizes Dickie again, and begins to tie somethin' on his eyes, and he fights and screams with all his little might.
"'Take it away,' he moans, 'I s'an't have it. Take me away from 'em, Cherry! Cherry, take it off!'
"Oh, how his screams rings in my ears now. I could ha' rushed in and knocked her down, that I could; but I'm glad I didn't interfere then, for I should ha' lost the little 'un if I had. They'd ha' made off with him fast enough.
"So I was just turnin' away on the dark stairs when the woman came towards the door. I stood back behind it as flat as I could, and she brushed past without seein' me.
"The moment she was gone I could see Cherry creep towards her little brother and lift the bandage. 'You'll get hit agin,' said the sulky man in a low voice; 'there's nothing but the p'lice, Cherry. I wish some 'un would give 'em a wink. I'm goin' down to bed.'
"He shuffled off to one of the lower rooms, and passed me as the woman had done without seeingme. Fearin' I should be questioned, and not makin' up my mind whether to let the poor little things know as I was there, I came out to collect my thoughts. The man had given me a hint. What if I should go in and rescue the children with the knowledge of the p'lice?
"I hastened down-stairs and reached the air without meetin' any one. Then I came home to you and Meg; but when I saw our own little 'un lyin' there so still and sweet, and knew that he, anyways, could never know those cruel blows, it wholly overcame me. And you know the rest, mother."
"I don't know how you got 'em, Jem, at last?"
"No more you do. Well, when Meg said as they was to come home here, I rushed out; and the first p'liceman I found I tells him the story.
"He didn't half believe me, but I says to him, 'You come up and stand outside the door, and if I can't persuade 'em, I'll call you. I don't want to have a row if I can get the children peaceable.'
"'Ain't they got no one belongin' to 'em?' he says, as we got to the door.
"'Their mother's dead and their father drinks; he might be anywhere,' I says to him.
"'I'll tell you whereheis, then,' he says, 'if this is the house. He's dyin' in the hospital, he is. He was run over this mornin'.'
"'Isthattheir father?' says I; and, mother, if you'll believe me, I felt all at once as if they ought tobelong to me, since I'd been saved, and this man of my name had been took.
"So we went up, and when we come to the door she'd begun beatin' of Cherry again.
"'Stop that!' I says, goin' in quick, and she looked as if she'd been shot. 'And now I've come to fetch these 'ere little 'uns away. I've seen yer cruelty to 'em, and if you make a fuss I'll expose you, as sure as my name's Jem Seymour.'
"With that she stares at me hard, and I go to Dickie and untie his eyes once more. They was terrible bad by this time, and he only cried more than ever at the light, and ran to Cherry.
"'Come, Cherry,' I says to her, 'there's them outside as will see justice done this time. Come along with me; put that shawl round Dickie, and never you fear, my dear.'
"Then I turned to her as they call old Sairy—'As for you,' says I, 'if you're ever seen with such another little 'un as this, I'll give you in charge that instant!'
"Cherry lifted Dickie up, but she was too sore to carry him. So I took him in my arms, and he clung round my neck, and so we come away. The woman was too scared to say a word, but I think as she caught sight of the p'liceman's helmet as we went down."
Mrs. Seymour sat with her breakfast almost untasted.
"Oh, God be thanked as they are safe," she said at last. "Jem, you did quite right."
"I think as I did," he answered; "but it's a cruel world, mother."
"And that child, Cherry, said as she was praying for a home?" asked Mrs. Seymour presently.
"Yes; she told me so as we come along. Her little heart was near breakin'."
Mrs. Seymour said no more, but went into the back room to see if Meg had waked. Still she and Dickie slept; so leaving the door ajar, she ascended to her own rooms, taking a cup of tea in her hand for her lodger.
She found her awake, and very glad of the tea and the latest news. While they were talking Cherry raised her head from her pillow and looked round startled. Then she saw Mrs. Seymour's kind face, and understood it all.
"Have you slept long enough, my dear?" she asked.
"I think so; when I opened my eyes at first I thought it was two years ago, and that this was our home before father took to drink so bad."
"Did your mother die since then?"
"Yes," said Cherry; "I forget exactly, but one thing I know, she was dreadfully ill on Christmas Day—not this last one, nor the one before that, but two years ago—and she died in a few days. Soon after that father got bad; he used to drink afore, butnot so much; and then our things went one by one, and at last——" Cherry shuddered.
"At last?" questioned Mrs. Seymour.
"He got tired of me askin' for food for me and Dickie, and we'd been a long time livin' in that big room where's there's such a lot of 'em, and then he agrees with old Sairy to take Dickie out with her, and let him share the profits; and he was out with 'em for I should say nigh on six months. At last Dickie was took so ill that he couldn't walk another step, and for a long time I thought he'd 'a died; I wished he had."
"And was that when you began to know my Meg?"
"Yes. Oh, she was awful kind to us. And then we went hoppin', and father and me earned a lot; but he hadn't been home but a little while afore he'd drunk up every bit of it, and then he thinks of sendin' Dickie out ag'in; and then they was that cruel to us both. Look here!"
She undid some of her poor little dress, and bared her thin, deformed shoulders. They were scarred with red seams and black and blue lines.
"Why did they beat you?" asked Mrs. Seymour, her face turning white at the sight.
"'Cause I wouldn't let 'em hurt Dickie, not while I could hold 'em back; but it weren't of no use, they always got the best of me at the end."
"Poor little girl," said Mrs. Seymour, strokingCherry's head tenderly; "poor little motherless girl!"
Cherry's eyes looked up gratefully.
"Oh, ma'am," she exclaimed earnestly, "if they'll keep Dickie safe from old Sairy I'll do anything for 'em—anything in the world that I can. I can learn things pretty quick—mother used to say so. Do you think as you could teach me anything?"
"I think we can, Cherry, if you're a good girl."
"I will try to be," she said humbly. "And please don't think, ma'am, as I've took to bad ways, 'cause—"
Cherry's voice was choked, and she could say no more.
Had the child guessed a certain holding back in Mrs. Seymour's manner.
"Why?" she asked gravely.
"'Cause," answered Cherry in a low voice, "I've never forgot what mother taught me. She said as I belonged to Jesus. When I thought of that—"
"Well?" asked Mrs. Seymour gently.
"I tried to please Him," said Cherry, hiding her face in the pillow.
Mrs. Seymour bent over her.
"Forgive me, little Cherry; I was so afraid—but now I'm not. Look up, dear, and give me a kiss."
Cherry put her arms round her neck without a word; and then Mrs. Seymour asked her if she would not like some breakfast soon?
Cherry's eyes brightened. "Oh, ma'am," she said,"I've not had anything but a crust for so long that I gave up callin' it breakfast."
"Well, child, when you have made yourself a bit tidy you come down as quiet as you can, and see what I'm about. There's Jem's teapot on the hob for you, and some nice bread and butter. Dickie's fast asleep now, and I must go back to them."
She went to seek Jem, who was not in the front room. She came to the open door, and saw him standing looking intently into the cradle. He turned hastily when he saw his mother, and signed to her to go into the other room, whither he followed quickly.
"Mother," he said, in a low tone, "what must I do about the little babe?"
He spoke in a smothered voice, and his mother knew the pang he must feel, now the excitement of all that had happened on the previous day was passing off.
She gave him a few brief instructions, and after saying he understood, he presently added, "Mother, I shall go to my master's, and ask him to let me off for a few hours. There ain't nothin' particular doin', so I dare say he'll make no objections. You see I've got to go about this——; and then when I come back Cherry and me must go to the hospital. I've been told as he's not expected to live the day. D'ye think my Meg'ull be awake when I come back?"
"Very likely she will. And, Jem, tell Mrs. Blunt as you pass, as I want her to step up for a fewminutes. I've done by her clothes as I've never done by no one's, all these twenty years that I've washed for people. I've let some one belongin' to me wear one! What do you think of your old mother now, Jem?"
"It's what she'll think," answered Jem with a slight smile. "I'll tell her to step up anyway."