CHAPTER II.

UP THE STAIRS.

A SMALL room in the top story but one of the house, was that to which Ailie was led by her companion, with one long narrow window, the broken diamond-shaped panes of glass being mended not untidily with rag. Being so high up in the confined street, such daylight as yet remained found freer entrance than below, and the darkness was some degrees less advanced than on the staircase and landings. Other similar windows might be seen in the building opposite, at a distance of some few yards, with haggard faces in them here and there.

If the room looked crowded, it was not at least with the presence of over much furniture. One broken bedstead stood in the corner, made to turn up clumsily in the daytime. Out of its coverings peeped three small heads, in various positions of careless repose. These were the infants, varying from six to three in age.

A rickety table occupied the centre of the room, and a man sat beside it on a chair, which had lost the upper half of its back. A large-built man in appearance, yet sickly-looking, with a hopeless expression of countenance, as he leant his head upon his hand, and gazed moodily on the floor.

Two idle looms stood against the wall, taking up much space, and doing little else, in this sad time of slack work. The only remaining chair was used by a dwarfish high-shouldered boy of ten or eleven, whose heavy head hung over the back, with dropping jaw, and half-opened eyes gazing into vacancy. Near him, extended listlessly on the floor, was a second boy, some two years older, tall, thin and feeble-looking, with wasted limbs showing through his tattered clothing, and honest eyes sparkling from beneath his brows. One of his knees, raised and crossing the other, formed a resting-place for a little girl of about seven or eight, whose large blue eyes, heavy with sleep, and delicate fairness of complexion, formed a curious contrast to other members of the family.

There was a hungry glance from those two at Esther Forsyth, as she entered the room, followed by a curious gaze at her companion. Such a mere scrag of a child it was, standing in the doorway, with black eyes, alike timid and eager, short black hair pushed behind her ears in an attempt at neatness, and thin bare arms. She did not look more than nine years old, but age is hard to guess among these stunted city children.

"Well," John Forsyth said briefly. "Got any work, Esther? No need to ask, I s'pose," and he sighed. "What's that child for?"

"John, did you know Jem Carter was a-dyin'?"

"Dyin'! No, I knowed he couldn't last long. What's to do about him?"

Esther slowly removed her ragged bonnet and shawl before answering.

"No, I've got no work," she said at length, in a calm tone, which was far removed from indifference. "Seems to me there's none to be had. I don't know what we'll come to. Have ye had your supper, all of ye?"

"I gave it the little ones—the crusts as was left for them," came in soft tones from the blue-eyed child upon the floor. "Father wouldn't take none, nor Hor wouldn't."

"Nor Lettie didn't want to, neither, but I made her," said the elder boy,—adding abruptly, "Mother, there hasn't a crumb passed your lips this day. D'ye think we'll eat up all, an' see you starve afore our faces?"

Esther went to the little cupboard, and brought out a small plate of crusts. "It's all there is," she said. "There ain't much left now as is worth puttin' in pawn, and if work don't come—" Then after a pause, "John, we'll spare the child a bit."

"Take it out your own children's mouths to put into a stranger's!" said John, moodily.

"She's eaten nought to-day, have ye, Ailie?"

"No, nor since yesterday morning," responded Ailie, with longing eyes.

Esther cast an appealing look at her husband.

"Do as ye will," he said shortly. "I'm not the man to refuse a crust when I can afford un."

Esther silently distributed the contents of the little blue plate. Ailie grasped with famished eagerness at the dry bread held out to her. She did not eat it quickly, however. The pleasure was too real and delicious to be soon ended, so she bit off small pieces, and constrained herself to munch them slowly, working her way across the room while doing so, till she found herself within two paces of the little girl, who thereupon beckoned her to come and sit down upon the floor. Ailie obeyed the invitation immediately, and stared hard at her and the boy.

"We're a queer couple, ain't we?" said the latter, with a twinkle of amusement in his hollow eyes. "Leastways, you seems to think so. What's wrong with us, eh?"

"What's your name?" asked Ailie, taking another bite.

"Mine's a jolly name, ain't it, Lettie? I'm Horatio Nelson Forsyth."

Ailie thought that grand indeed, and gazed with rounded fascinated eyes.

"Lettie calls me Hor, and so does most folks; but I like more particular to be called Nelson. He was a real man, you see, as I was named after—the biggest sailor ever lived, an' beat all his enemies to nothin', an' I'd like to do the same."

"You couldn't," said Ailie, grieved to see how her crust was diminishing.

"Maybe not; but I'd like it just—wouldn't I? I'll be a sailor some day, an' live on the sea in a big ship."

"What's the sea like?" asked Ailie.

"Why, lots o' water. I haven't never seen it—more's the pity—but folks say it's grand—all a-splashin' and a-dashin', with white spray flyin' through the air."

"What's spray?" asked Ailie.

"Well, I don't know as I could say 'xactly, but I fancy it's a bit like mother's soap-suds when she washes up," said Hor confidentially.

"Soap-suds ain't pretty a bit," said Ailie.

"Spray's pretty, if soap isn't—I know that. Lettie, here, don't care for me to talk about the sea. It's the country she wants—eh, Lettie?"

"I'd like a lot o' green ever so much," said Lettie.

"See if I don't get you a real plant some o' these days, and a nice red flower, all for yourself, Lettie."

"I'd a deal rather it should be white," murmured Lettie wistfully. "Mayn't it, Hor?"

"I'd have it red, if I was you," said Ailie, with eager eyes—"ever such a bright red—like—like—oh, like a man's coat."

"Like a soldier's coat," suggested Hor. "Lettie likes white flowers best, ye see."

"Lettie, it's time ye should be off to bed," said Esther. "Don't ye want any more, Ailie?"

Ailie looked from the two remaining inches of hard dry crust to Esther Forsyth's face, and then back again.

"I just do," she said expressively. "But there's father."

A momentary look of softening came over Esther's lined hard features—hard only outwardly, for there lay a tender woman's heart beneath. Only, so much of its tenderness had been frozen by long years of pressure, that it was not readily melted into expression. The growth of dull reserve and impassive endurance, which had gathered closely over her once open-hearted nature, was not easily broken through. Still, for an instant her eyes wore a look of softness, as she said—

"Ailie's a good girl to think of her father, isn't she now, John?"

"Aye," responded John, shortly. "What be you a-going to do with her?"

Esther looked at Ailie, and Ailie cowered in renewed fear.

"Oh, don't ye—don't ye send me back," she entreated. "I'll let him have my bread. I won't be in nobody's way. I'll sleep on the stairs, ever so quiet. Oh, don't ye send me back."

"'Twould be cruel to send her alone," said Esther. "A bit of a child like that—and he dyin'."

John's assent was a monosyllable. Poor, hopeless, weary, they might be themselves; nevertheless, that they should help a neighbour in his sorer trouble was but a thing of course.

"Mother, I'll take down Ailie, an' see what's wantin'," suggested Horatio, sitting up. He had been wandering for hours through the streets, poor boy, vainly seeking for employment, while barely recovered from a severe attack of low fever, and subsisting on a mere scrap of bread. Esther shook her head.

"Ye've been on the tramp all day, and you're fit for nothin' but sleep. I'll go with Ailie myself."

"You've been nigh as long on the tramp yourself, mother."

"A boy's little use in a sick-room," said Esther. "Get to bed, Lettie and Roger—an' you too, Hor. I'll be back when I can."

Taking the child's hand in her own, she left the room again, and Ailie went submissively, though trembling. Down one flight of stairs after another they made their way, Esther walking more steadily now, perhaps strengthened by her little taste of supper. Perhaps the very act of caring for others imparted vigour to herself.

Not that it was done with the highest motives. Not that Esther had any thought of "serving the Lord." No such Heavenly light shone in upon the Forsyth's dreary home as would have come from trust in a Heavenly Father's watchful love. If the good seed had ever been sown in Esther's heart, the pressing cares of poverty had long ago stifled its growth, and smothered out the germ of life. She and her husband had struggled long in past years to retain a respectable appearance, but of late a cloud seemed to have settled down upon them all.

John was not an unsteady man in the main, but sometimes, in the mere longing to escape from idleness, and its attendant train of miseries, he fled to the public-house, and, once there, what wonder if he stayed too long, and took too much? The crowded room which formed his home could indeed offer small attractions.

Esther bore it all silently—bore it as she bore everything else, with a kind of dogged patience. Down in her heart the canker-worm of hopelessness was sapping the springs of energy. But for her children, she could have lain down without a wish ever to rise again. For love of them she strove on, sought work, denied herself, and lived a life of silent endurance. But it was so long now since all regular work had failed, that the old struggle for at least the appearance of respectability was dying out. They were growing used to rags and tatters, and scanty clothing—worse still, even to want of cleanliness. What was the use of striving? When failing for lack of food, and sinking with the long day's search for the means of livelihood, Esther was in no state for "cleaning up," she would have said.

And yet the woman's heart of sympathy beat still beneath that soiled cotton gown. She could not see Ailie Carter in distress, and not do the little in her power to help.

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