Her wide-open, sad blue eyes filled slowly, and she turned in silence to cover over her little brother. She took up the old shawl and spread the blanket next him, then unfolding the shawl, which had been doubled for warmth, she carefully covered every bit of the blanket with it, even seeking a bit of rag from somewhere to stop up a hole through which the whiteness peeped.

"He might guess it else," she explained, and her hearers had to draw their own conclusions.

"Wouldn't he like him to have it?" questioned Jem.

"He'd like drink better," answered Cherry, in a matter-of-fact tone.

"Since poor father's taken to that so much, he don't have the heart he used to have, He wouldn't have took this attic for us, so comfortable, only the landlady let us have it cheap 'cause the other folks wouldn't have d.i.c.kie no longer."

"Why, dear?" asked Meg pitifully.

"'Cause he cried and coughed so. The attic was empty, and I told father I didn't mind the holes in the roof so long as they wouldn't worry d.i.c.kie. So he was in a good humour, and let us come, and we've been here a month."

Cherry spoke in a congratulating tone, but soon grew sober again when she looked towards the little brown head that moved so restlessly.

"Jem," whispered Meg, "might I make him some bread and milk, and bring it round to him at once?"

Jem willingly agreed, and Meg hurried away. While she was gone, he sat down and drew from his pocket a little Testament, and with Cherry's eyes curiously watching him, he turned over the leaves till he came to the tenth chapter of John. Then in a clear, low tone, that soothed while it wooed them to listen, he read about the Good Shepherd giving His life for the sheep.

Cherry sat down on the bottom of the mattress and listened, evidently not as if it were a new tale, but yet as a thirsty man will stretch out his hand for water which he has not tasted for so long.

"d.i.c.kie," she whispered, as Jem paused, "don't yer like to hear about Jesus? That's the Good Shepherd what I've told you about, as loves the little lambs."

d.i.c.kie opened his eyes just enough to give her the shadow of a smile of a.s.sent; but he was too weak to care to speak.

"Here, dear," said Meg, coming in and leaning over him; "do you like a little nice hot bread and milk?"

The child could not remember the time when such a name had been mentioned to him; but when Meg put a spoonful to his lips the smell of it brought back vividly the remembrance of his mother.

"Yes," he said, answering Meg's question now; "I 'ike it very much."

When he had eaten about half he put his little hand out, and gently pushed the basin away. "No more," he whispered, and sank into sleep such as he had not had since that terrible May day, when he had been brought home nearly dying.

Then Meg turned to Cherry.

"Eat the rest of it, dear," she said.

"Oh, no," answered the child, drawing back; "it 'ull do him such a deal o' good. He never gets nothing nice."

"Jem will let me bring him some more another day," answered Meg; "but if you would rather keep this till he wakes, see, I have brought something for you."

She unfolded a piece of paper with two thick slices of bread-and-b.u.t.ter, which Cherry took in her hands with a look of grat.i.tude which went to Meg's heart.

"Oh, you _are_ good!" the girl exclaimed, throwing her arms round Meg; "n.o.body was ever so good to us before--since mother went. He's always callin' for mother."

Meg gazed in the upturned face, and then after an instant's hesitation she stooped and kissed it--the soiled little face, upon which Meg was certain was written the name of the King of kings.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER V.

A FEW SHIRTS.

"You look tired, mother," said Meg, drawing forward the arm-chair the first time her mother-in-law came to see her after her wedding-day.

"I am," answered Mrs. Seymour, sinking into the seat with a weary sigh.

"I was going to set out to call on you this morning, but, stupid-like, I never asked Jem where you lived before he went to his work. So I couldn't come."

"And Jem never told you where I lived?" asked Mrs. Seymour, astonished.

"I asked him," answered Meg, "and he smiled at me, and said he should tell me nothing about it, but take me to see."

"Why, I live in the very same house, my dear."

Meg looked too surprised to speak. When at last she could find any words, she said anxiously--

"How very unkind you must have thought me, mother, in not coming to see after you. Times I have meant to ask Jem, but then he was out; and these few days have pa.s.sed so quickly, I have been so busy getting out all my little treasures."

Mrs. Seymour looked round.

"Your things have made a lot o' difference, my dear. You have smartened it up a deal."

"Oh, it did not want smartening up," said Meg; "but the young ladies at the Hall did give me such pretty things. Look at this workbox, and this tea-caddy, and that pretty vase. Those were the young ladies' gifts, and those gla.s.s dishes from the other servants."

Mrs. Seymour said they were very kind, and then sat looking somewhat abstractedly into the little fire.

"And he never told you what a job he had to get these rooms for you?"

she asked at last.

"No," said Meg; "did he have a job?"

"Oh, that he had. For the party that was in them didn't want to move out. You must know, Meg, that I and Jem lived in two rooms in this house ever since I buried his poor father. But when he got to earn enough, he took the front room on this floor for himself, and used to come and have his meals with me. I've lived in this house twenty years come Michaelmas. I'm a laundress, you know, and wash for poor folks."

"A laundress!" exclaimed Meg, looking at her pale, thin face; "then that's what makes you so tired?"

"No, my dear," briefly answered her mother, "not if I had got my usual help. But she's took a day's holiday, as she does whenever it suits her, and I and my work may go then, for aught she cares."

The old woman's face had begun to a.s.sume a hard look, but it was only for a moment.

"Well, well," she said hastily, "it's not for me to be coming down hard on others; I'm not so good myself to my Master. But there was a day, Meg, when I couldn't have felt like that; and it ain't so long ago, neither. It was my Jem as brought me the good news, and since I've been forgiven myself, I'm learnin' to forgive. It makes all the difference."

"It does indeed," answered Meg gently, seating herself in a low chair close to the old woman, and putting her hand in hers.