CHAPTER V.

STARVING.

"HOR," said little Lettie meditatively, on the afternoon of the following day, "don't you wonder what's become of Ailie?"

Hor had just returned from his daily ramble in search of employment. Little hope had he now of finding regular work—he had tried so long in vain; but still he contrived to earn a few pence in various ways, and those who had once employed him did not soon forget his honest look. To-day he had returned earlier than usual, and, after depositing his earnings with his mother, went out into the yard. There he found Lettie, seated on a corner of the broken-down wall, overlooking the three little ones, who made high glee with a mud puddle near at hand.

"Mother says nothin' more ain't been seen of her," said Hor. "Queerest thing I ever heard of. Seems as if some'at wrong must have happened to the poor little lass."

"Father was askin' about her this mornin'," said Lettie. "He says he can't do no more. Mother thinks some one must ha' taken her off."

"Don't seem much sense in that, neither," said Hor. "She hadn't on a scrap o' clothes as would fetch sixpence. More likely—well, I don't know—but maybe it's a fancy o' the little thing herself. P'raps she's gone off, thinkin' she'll find her mother. I shouldn't wonder."

"Hor," said Lettie deliberately, "Ailie wasn't asleep, but only pretendin', when father talked o' the work'us for her."

"Wasn't she?" cried Hor.

"I'm sure I see her open one eye, an' shut it up again tight; an' she was cryin' after, when you all thought she was a-sleepin'."

"Why didn't you tell us?" asked Hor.

"I didn't like. Poor Ailie! Hor, I wouldn't like the work'us," said Lettie. "Isn't it a dreadful cruel place?"

Hor whistled. "Not as I knows on. Folks say we'd ought to think ourselves well off, to have it to go to. But 'tain't pleasant to be a-livin' on charity."

"What's charity?" asked Lettie, with wondering eyes. "Is it some sort o' nasty victuals?"

"Victuals—no. Livin' on charity means—means—why, it's same thing as being a beggar."

"You ain't a beggar, nor Ailie wasn't, neither."

"She's one now, poor little lass, if I ain't much mistaken," said Hor. "'Tain't likely she'll get much to eat by any other means, except a-begging, wherever she be."

"Is mother a beggar?" asked Lettie.

"Mother! No!" cried Hor. "What's put into your head to ask such a question?"

"Nor father, neither?" inquired Lettie.

"No, nor none of us, nor never will be, so long as father 'n I have an arm to work."

"Nor isn't I a beggar?" asked Lettie, reaching the climax towards which she had been ascending.

"No more than the rest on us," said Hor.

Lettie nestled up a little closer to Hor's ragged jacket. "Hor," she whispered softly, "didn't ye hear what father said yesterday—?"

"Well?" said Horatio.

"About other folks' children," said Lettie, with an effort. "If father got tired o' me, an' wasn't to want to have me no longer, I'd have to be a beggar, then, wouldn't I?"

"Likely he'll get tired o' you!" cried Hor. "I'd work for ye then! He didn't say nought o' the kind, though."

"He did say some'at about never doin' it again, an' he said he'd give way to mother once, but he wasn't goin' to twice," said Lettie. It was strange to hear that tiny fair-haired child discussing the matter so calmly. "An' he did say once, when mother gave a bit to Ailie, that 'twas taken out o' his own children's mouths."

"You're one of us. 'Tain't like Ailie. She's a stranger, an' you're every inch our sister. Don't think o' that again! Father didn't mean nothing; he's only bothered an' worried, an' don't hardly know what he's about. I say, that ain't Ailie, sure!"

A little figure, crouching in the shadow of the wall, attracted his attention, and he made a sudden bound forward, but before he could reach the spot, it had vanished, and after-searching proved useless. He gave up at length, and almost ascribed the whole to fancy.

Yet it was Ailie herself that he had seen—Ailie, after a second long day of concealment and fasting, venturing at length to creep out in search of food. She felt very weak and craving, but she had not dared to appear earlier, lest John Forsyth should find her and take her off to the workhouse that night. The more feeble grew her little frame, the stronger waxed her dread of going thither—unreasoning childish dread, but none the less real for that.

Hearing Horatio's exclamation, and seeing him run towards her, she had fled with all speed, and rushed round the side of the house, and into the street, before he saw the direction she had taken.

There, without delaying a moment, though with shaking limbs and heaving breath, she hurried along, and never stopped till she found herself at the entrance of the broad neighbouring thoroughfare, with its handsome shops; its plate glass windows, full of dresses, bonnets, and ribbons; its bakers and confectioners, more tempting still; its strings of cabs and carriages; and its crowds of well-dressed foot-passengers on the pavement.

Ailie had never yet known what it was to beg. But now she felt so hungry and weak and faint, that she longed to ask the passers-by to give her something, as she stood in a little sheltered corner, close to a shop-window. Sometimes she tried to begin to say, "Please give me a penny," but each time the words seemed to stick and swell in her throat, and no sound came.

If only she could rest somewhere; she was so tired—oh, so tired and thirsty. There was a drinking-fountain not far distant, and she dragged her failing limbs there, and drank some of the fresh water out of the tin cup, but that made her feel more hungry than ever. If poor mother could but come to help her! Ailie felt so utterly alone. Nobody in all the world to care for her, except mother, away for two months in jail—nobody else except the Forsyths, and she dared not go near them, for they would only send her to the workhouse. Ailie was so desolate that she wanted to cry, but somehow tears would not come, and the dry sobs which she could not check made her feel worse and worse.

A baker's shop stood just across the way with such tempting beautiful wonderful loaves in the window Ailie thought that to have one of those loaves would be perfect happiness. She would care for nothing else in all the world then. Such an unhappy-looking child passed at that moment, dressed in white muslin, and with two great buns in her hand. How could she look unhappy when she had two whole buns of her own? Ailie did wonder at the sight. Not that she wanted buns herself. She only wanted some bread—ever so dry, ever so hard, ever so little—just to check this burning terrible hunger. And, leaning against the wall, Ailie sobbed again tearless sobs of anguish.

"What's the matter?" asked a voice, and Ailie looked up. A little girl of about her own age stood in front of her, dressed in a pretty pink frock, with a straw hat and one long black feather across it, and delicately-gloved hands, which were folded over a tiny terrier lying asleep in her arms. She gazed wonderingly at Ailie. "What's the matter?" she repeated. "Have you had a beating?"

"No," said Ailie.

"Or have you spilt some milk, or broken a jug? That's like the poor little girls in story-books," added the child to herself.

"I'm so hungry," whispered Ailie, hanging her head.

"Why don't you go home to tea?" asked the little girl.

"I've nowhere to go," said Ailie, in a choked voice.

"Why, where do you live?"

"I've been under the stairs all night, an' they wants to send me to the work'us—and, oh! I don't want to go," sobbed Ailie, with catches in her breath.

"Won't they give you anything to eat?" asked the other child, gravely.

"There's nobody. Father's dead, an' mother—an' mother—"

"Is your mother dead too?"

"They've put her in jail."

"Jail! Is that prison? Why she must be very wicked if they put her there," said the little girl. "What did she do?"

The shame of her mother's disgrace came over Ailie, as she noted the little girl's dainty boots draw back a pace.

"Mother was starvin', an' father dyin' for want; an' she took-she took a loaf," said Ailie.

"That was stealing," said the little girl decisively. "It's very wicked indeed to steal, and I don't wonder they put her in jail. Everybody's punished that steals, you know. But who takes care of you?"

[Illustration: "What's the matter?" she repeated. "Have you had a beating?"]

"Miss Josie! Now I never!" exclaimed a respectably-dressed attendant, coming up, hot and breathless, from a gossip with an acquaintance. "As sure as I turn my eyes, you're in mischief. Talking to a dirty little street girl, coming from no one knows where."

"She's starving, nurse," said Josie.

"They're every man, woman, and child of them starving all the year round, if you'll believe them," said nurse contemptuously. "Miss Josie, come on this minute."

"I wish I had my penny," sighed Josie. "I do wish I hadn't bought that doll. Nurse, couldn't the little girl come home for my other penny—and wouldn't that buy her a roll, and keep her from starving?"

"No, indeed," said nurse wrathfully. "Telling strange beggar-children to come to our house, indeed! How d'ye know she isn't just getting over the scarlet fever, or small-pox, or anything else?"

"Are you, little girl?" asked Josie, in straightforward style.

"I ain't been ill—I'm only a-starving," said Ailie.

"Then you'd better go home and get your parents to feed you," said nurse. "Miss Josie, come on this minute."

"She hasn't got any parents—at least, one's dead and her mother's in prison," cried Josie, getting into a passion. "Nurse, do lend me a penny."

"I'm not going to encourage them beggars," said nurse resolutely. "Mother in prison! I dare say she is, and the child's likely enough to follow her there. Miss Josie, if you don't come on this moment—"

A strong hand on Josie's wrist spoke more forcibly than words could do. Sobbing and struggling, the little girl was drawn away, and Ailie saw her last hope disappear.

She gave up after that, and leant against the wall, watching the passers-by, as in a dream, no longer looking for help. And presently, as the dusk gathered round her, she turned homewards, staggering feebly in the gray shadows close to the walls, and thus escaping observation.

She had formed no plans where to go, and she was past all power of thought. Only in her suffering she shrank from the lonely misery of her retreat under the staircase, and when she entered the house, she went slowly upward, step by step, until she reached the landing where Esther Forsyth had discovered her three nights before. There again, in the same spot, she crouched down, sheltered as before from observation by the increasing darkness.

No one would be likely to remark her presence in passing. But, whether discovered or not, Ailie knew nothing of it, for she sank into insensibility, and lay there—a mere little heap of rags, covering a small bony form—in the corner of the landing.

[Illustration]