The next day it was all over the place that Jim Hardy and Louisa Clay were engaged. Harry heard the news as he was coming home from doing a message for Grannie; Grannie heard it when she went shopping; Alison heard it from the boy who sold the milk--in short, this little bit of tidings of paramount interest in Alison's small world was dinned into her ears wherever she turned. Jim was engaged. His friends thought that he had done very well for himself, and it was arranged that the wedding was to take place just before Lent. Lent would fall early this year, and Jim's engagement would not last much over six weeks.

Notwithstanding all she had said the day before, Alison turned very pale when the cruel news came to her.

"What can it mean?" said Grannie, who followed the girl into her bedroom. "I don't understand it--there must be an awful mistake somewhere. You can't, surely, have thrown over a good fellow like that, Alison?"

"No, he threw me over," said Alison.

"Child, I jest don't believe yer."

"All right, Grannie; I'm afraid I can't help it whether you believe me or not. Jim is dead to me now, and we won't talk of him any more.

Grannie dear, let us go into the kitchen; you and I have something else to attend to. What is to come o' me? What am I to do for myself now that I can't get a situation for want of a character, and now that I have lost my young man?"

Alison laughed in a bitter way as she said the last words. She looked straight out of the window, and avoided meeting Grannie's clear blue eyes.

"I must get something to do," said Alison. "I am young, and strong, and capable, and the fact of having a false charge laid to my door can't mean surely that I am to starve. I must get work, Grannie; I must learn to support myself and the children. Oh, and you, you dear old lady; for you can't do much, now that your 'and is so bad."

"It do get worse," said Grannie, in a solemn voice; "it pains and burns awful now and then, and the thumb and forefinger are next to useless--they aint got any power in 'em. 'Taint like my usual luck, that it aint. I can't understand it anyhow. But there, child, for the Lord's sake don't worry about an old body like me. Thank the Lord for his goodness, I am at the slack time o' life, and I don't want no thought and little or no care. I aint the p'int--it's you that's the p'int, Ally--you and the chil'en."

"Well, what is to be done, grandmother? It seems to me that we have not a day to lose. We never could save much, there was too great a drag on your earnings, and mine seemed swept up by rent and twenty other things, and now neither you nor I have been earning anything for weeks. We can't have much money left now, have we?"

"We have got one pound ten," said Grannie. "I looked at the purse this morning. One pound ten, and sevenpence ha'penny in coppers; that's all. That wouldn't be a bad sum if there was anythink more coming in; but seeing as ther' aint, it is uncommon likely to dwindle, look at it from what p'int you may."

"Well, then, we haven't an hour to lose," said Alison.

"We haven't an hour to lose," repeated Grannie. She looked around the little room; her voice was cheerful, but there was a dreary expression in her eyes. Alison noticed it. She got up and kissed her.

"Don't, child, don't; it aint good to move the feelin's when things is a bit rough, as they are now. We have got to be firm, Alison, and we have got to be brave, and there aint no manner o' use drawing on the feelin's. Keep 'em under, say I, and stand straight to your guns.

It's a tough bit o' battle we're goin' through, but we must stand to our guns, that's wot I say."

"And I too," said the girl, stiffening herself under the words of courage. "Well now, I know you are a very wise woman, Grannie; what's to be done?"

"I am going to see Mr. Williams, that old clergyman in Bayswater wot was so good to me when my husband died. I am going to see him to-morrow," said Grannie. "Arter I have had a good spell of talk with him, I'll tell you more."

"Do you think he could get me a situation?"

"Maybe he could."

"I wish you would go to him at once, Grannie. There really doesn't seem to be a day to be lost."

"What's the hour, child? I don't mind going to him now, but I thought it might be a bit late."

"Not at all; you'll see him when he comes home to dinner. Shall I go with you? Somehow I pine for a change and a bit of the air."

"No, darlin', I'd best see him by myself, and then there's the bus fare to consider; but ef you'd walk with me as far as St. Paul's Churchyard, I'd be much obleeged, and you can see me into the bus. I am werry strong, thank the Lord; but somehow, when the crowd jostle and push, they seem to take my nerve off--particular since this 'and got so bad."

Grannie went into her little room to get ready for her expedition, and Alison also pinned on her hat and b.u.t.toned on her pilot-cloth jacket.

Grannie put on her best clothes for this occasion. She came out equipped for her interview in her neat black shawl and little quilted bonnet. The excitement had brought a bright color to her cheeks and an added light to her blue eyes.

"Why, Grannie, how pretty you look," said her granddaughter. "I declare you are the very prettiest old lady I ever saw."

Grannie was accustomed to being told that she was good-looking. She drew herself up and perked her little face.

"The Phippses were always remarked for their skins," she said; "beautiful they was, although my poor mother used to say that wot's skin-deep aint worth considering. Still, a good skin is from the Lord, and he gave it to the Phippses with other good luck; no mistake on that p'int."

The next moment the two set out. It was certainly getting late in the day, but Alison cheered Grannie on, repeating several times in a firm and almost defiant manner that there was not an hour to be lost. They got to St. Paul's Churchyard, and Alison helped Grannie to get into an omnibus. The old woman got a seat near the door, and smiled and nodded brightly to her granddaughter as the bus rolled away. Alison went back very slowly to her home. She had a terrible depression over her, and longed almost frantically for something to do. All her life she had been a very active girl. No granddaughter of Mrs. Reed's was likely to grow up idle, and Alison, almost from the time she could think, had been accustomed to fully occupy each moment of her day. Now the long day dragged, while despair clutched at her heart. What had she done?

What sin had she committed to be treated so cruelly? Grannie was religious; she was accustomed to referring things to G.o.d. There was a Rock on which her spirit dwelt which Alison knew nothing about. Now, the thought of Grannie and her religion stirred the girl's heart in the queerest way.

"I don't do any good," she said to herself; "seems as if the Lord didn't care for poor folks, or he wouldn't let all this sort of thing come on me. It aint as if I weren't always respectable; it aint as if I didn't always try to do what's right. Then there's so much bad luck jist now come all of a heap: Grannie's bad hand, which means the loss of our daily bread, and this false accusation of me, and then my losing Jim. Oh, dear, that's the worst part, but I won't think of that now, I won't. I feel that I could go mad if I thought much of that."

When Alison returned to the flat in Sparrow Street it was in time to get tea for the children. The little larder was becoming sadly bare; the Christmas feast was almost all eaten up, and Alison could only provide the children with very dry bread, and skim milk largely diluted with water.

"Grannie wouldn't treat us like that," said Kitty, who was extremely fond of her meals.

"You may be thankful if you even get dry bread soon," said Alison.

The three little girls stared up at her with wondering, terrified eyes.

Her tone was very morose. They saw that she was unapproachable, and looked down again. They ate their unpalatable meal quickly, and in silence. Alison kept the kettle boiling on the fire against Grannie's return.

"You haven't taken any tea yourself," said Polly, who was Alison's room-fellow, and the most affectionate of the three.

"I aint hungry, dear; don't notice it," said the elder sister in a somewhat gentler tone. "Now you may run, all of you, and have a play in the court."

"But it's quite dark, and Grannie doesn't like us to be out in the dark."

"I don't think she'll mind when I tell her that I gave you leave. I have a splitting headache and must be alone for a bit. It is a dry night, and the three of you keep close together, and then you'll come to no harm. There, run off now, and don't bother me."

Kitty stared hard at her sister; Polly's eyes flashed with pleasure at the thought of a bit of unexpected fun; Annie was only too anxious to be off. Soon Alison had the little kitchen to herself. She sat by the fire, feeling very dull and heavy; her thoughts would keep circulating round unpleasant subjects: the one pound ten and sevenpence halfpenny which stood between the family and starvation; Jim and Louisa--Louisa's face full of triumph, and her voice full of pride, and Jim's devotion to her; Grannie's painful right hand, and the feather-st.i.tching which she, Alison, had never taken the trouble to learn.

"The old lady was right," she said, half under her breath, half aloud.

"She's a deal wiser than me, and I might have done worse that follow her advice. I wish I knew the st.i.tch now; yes, I do. Oh! is that you, Dave?" as her brother came in; "but we have done tea."

"I have had some," said David. "Mr. Watson called me into his room, and gave me a cup. What is it, Ally; what's the matter?"

"You needn't ask," said Alison. "You don't suppose I am likely to be very cheerful just now."

"I am ever so sorry," said the boy. "I can't think how this trouble come to you."

"If it's Jim," she answered angrily, "you needn't worry to find out, for I'll tell you. I don't love him no more. He would have married me if I cared to have him, but I didn't see my way to it. Now let's drop the subject."

David sat down not far from the fire. He held out his hands to the blaze. There was a sort of pleased excitement about him which Alison after a time could not help noticing.

"You look quite perky about something," she said. "It is good for any of us to be cheerful just now. What's up?"

"Where's Grannie?" said Dave. "I'd like to tell her first."

"Oh, very well, just as you please. But she is out. She won't be back for a good bit yet."

"Aint it very late for her to be out? Where is she gone?"