CHAPTER III.

THE WOLF.

THE home of Matthew Reardon and his family consisted of one large room, with a kind of closet opening out of it, in which the children slept. The walls were of dark oak and panelled, with a carved chimney-piece, and deep recesses, and, best of all, a lofty ceiling, such as one seldom meets with in those close and confined dwelling-places in which the London poor are obliged to live.

It was a gloomy room, nevertheless, especially when evening came, and the dim light of the one candle by which Matthew and his wife worked cast all beyond into deep shadow. Then the little handful of fire gleamed and flickered in the large old-fashioned grate, and the shadows began to dance in a strange grotesque manner on the dark oak panels.

A little apart, in one of those deep recesses, sat, on the evening of which we write—and, indeed, on most evenings—the two little children, close together, and speaking in whispers for fear of disturbing their father. One would almost wonder what they could find to talk about—their mother often did—but somehow, they always seemed to have a thousand things to say to one another, especially after they began to attend the Sunday school.

It was a dull life for those lonely children sitting thus hour after hour in the dusk, and neither playing nor speaking aloud, or having any one to speak to or amuse them, and with no sound to be heard save the scratch, scratch, scratch, of Matthew's pen as it flew rapidly over the paper; or the occasional click of their mother's scissors, although she was very careful in this respect, well knowing how every little noise jarred upon the sensitive nerves of her husband, rendered painfully irritable by over-work.

Sometimes an organ-grinder would come into the street and begin playing a melancholy tune. Somehow street organs generally do play melancholy tunes—which the children loved to hear, although it made them feel sad without knowing why. Matthew the while used to fling down his pen, and running his thin fingers through his hair, walk up and down the room with an angry frown, incapable of doing anything until the last note had died away, and often obliged to work late in consequence of the interruption thus occasioned.

The whispering of the children never seemed to disturb him. So good and quiet were they, indeed, that he frequently even forgot that they were in the room. But their mother never did.

Poor loving mother! God only knows the sorrowful thoughts that filled her mind at those times, and that not because she told Him—it would have comforted her if she had—but because He knoweth the secret of all hearts.

Day after day, night after night, week after week, month after month, it was the same thing over and over again. The same weary toil, the same writing, page after page, and sheet after sheet. The same hemming, and sewing, and frilling little dainty garments for other people's children to wear. The same long silent evenings in that large shadow-haunted room. The same melancholy organ coming and going. The same stir of human life in the street below, and on the stairs without, surging on but never coming near them. The same grand theme of conversation, of which the whispering children never seemed to tire. The same ceaseless, prayerless struggle constantly going on in the parents' hearts and lives.

The evening of which we are about to write was nevertheless an eventful one to Polly and Bessie. The fire had burned low in the wide grate, and the room looked gloomy enough as Mrs. Reardon rose to mend it, using her fingers for that purpose, in order not to make more noise than she could possibly help, for fear of disturbing her husband.

It was a pleasant sight to the children to watch the bright flames leaping and dancing up the chimney, as their mother stirred the fire into a cheerful blaze; after which she washed her hands, and having carefully snuffed the candle, pushing it a little nearer to her husband, and a little farther from herself as she did so, quietly resumed her needlework.

A long silence ensued, so long that the flames had finished their dance and vanished, and the fire was nearly gone, too, before Mrs. Reardon moved again.

"Have you much more to do to-night, Matthew?" asked she.

"Not much," replied her husband, without looking up.

"Is it worth while to put on more coals?"

"Why not?"

"There are so few left," was the reply, "and I do not see how we shall be able to get any more before Saturday."

"Then we must wait till Saturday."

"One begins to feel the cold towards evening in this large room," said his wife, shivering as she spoke.

"I don't mind it."

"But the children, Matthew."

"I had forgotten them. Won't the man let us have more if we promise to pay for them on Saturday?"

"We promised last week, Matthew."

"It was not our fault," said her husband, gloomily. "If we had been paid, we should have paid him. It is a shame to keep a man out of his hardly-earned wages."

"Never mind," said his wife, soothingly, "there will be all the more to receive when Mr. Heighington returns. He never disappointed you before, you know. We must try and make the coals last out. May I put away your papers? I am sure you must be tired." She never remembered her own aching eyes and weary fingers.

"Very well," said Matthew, leaning back in his chair, "only take care what you are about, or I shall have no end of trouble with them in the morning."

And resting thus, he watched her as she gathered them together, and laid them carefully aside, together with her own neatly-folded work.

"You, too, have been busy to-day," continued he, touching the delicate fabric as he spoke.

"Yes, indeed. But then mine is not hard work like yours. I can sit and think of a hundred things all the time I am sewing—not that thinking makes me any happier. It was only to-day that I was wondering to myself whether the children will have to work as hard when they grow up as you and I are obliged to do."

"Before they grow up, perhaps!"

"Oh, Matthew!" exclaimed his wife.

"Well, let us hope not. At any rate, it is of no use meeting trouble half-way. It won't be while I am alive. I do not mind how hard I work, if we can only keep the wolf from the door."

Just then a large cinder fell out of the dying fire; and the children, huddled together in their dark corner, woke up in time to catch the last words which their father had uttered.

"Polly," whispered little Bessie, "did you hear what father said about the wolf?"

"Yes," answered Polly, all of a tremble.

"Hulloa, children!" exclaimed Matthew. "How is this? You ought to have been in bed long ago."

"Poor things!" said their mother. "It is not much later than usual. How white you both look, and how cold your hands are—and no fire to warm them," added she, with a sigh.

"They will be warm enough in bed," said Matthew. "Come, off with you, little ones. What is it, Bess?" added he, touched with the earnest and wistful expression of the child's face.

"Oh, father," exclaimed she, nestling closer to him, "do you think that you shall be able to keep it out?"

"Keep what out?"

"The wolf, father," was the whispered reply.

Matthew thought for a moment, and then a strange rare smile passed over his face.

"You have been listening," said he.

"We could not help it, father. The cinders fell out of the fire and woke us up; and then we heard you telling mother that there was a wolf at the door, and that you meant to try hard to keep him out. Was he really at our door, father?"

"I am afraid he was very near it."

"But he's gone now, isn't he?"

"Yes, he's gone now—but not very far off, I fear."

"Does the wolf ever go to any of the other rooms?" asked little Bessie.

"I dare say he does. He is always prowling about somewhere among the poor."

"'Seeking whom he may devour'?" repeated the child, fearfully.

"That's about it, little one."

"Do you think that you shall be able to keep him out?" asked Bessie again.

"I hope so; at any rate, I'll try hard."

Matthew and his wife exchanged a sad smile as he said it. They little thought, as they spoke of their poverty, of the impression which his words had made upon those poor frightened children, or how they would go to bed that night and dream of the terrible wolf, and start and tremble at every sound.