“They still live, or rather starve, in the old shed,” said he; “but now they go out each day together. I expect them here every minute.”
“So then they are as poor as ever?” inquired I.
“I have heard something of occasional treats of warm soup at the school, but I don’t think that they get anything certain. I suppose that now and then, when some good folk sit down to a comfortable meal, beside a roaring fire, they just happen to remember that seventy or eighty half-famished children are gathered together in a street near, and send them a welcome supply. But both Bob and Billy have hope now, if they have nothing else; they expect soon to be able to do something for themselves, and to be helped on by the kind friends whom they have found at the school.”
“Has Bob brought home any more red handkerchiefs with white spots?” inquired I.
“Not a rag of one,” answered my companion; “but he brings back something which puzzles my brain—something white, with black marks upon it. He and little Billy sit poring over it by the hour. They don’t eat it, they don’t smell it, they don’t wear it: I can’t make out that it is of any use to them at all; and yet they seem as much pleased, as they study it together, as if it were a piece of Dutch cheese!”
“What are these odd things scattered about the shed?” said I; “I don’t remember seeing them before.”
“Ah! I forgot to say the little one is beginning to make baskets, and neat fingers he has about it: it seems quite a pleasure to the child. The very talk of the boys is growing different now; the elder—”
He stopped at the sound of a distant cough, which became more distressing every minute, till our two poor boys entered the shed, and Bob sank wearily down on the floor.
“Oh! that cough, how it shakes you!” cried Billy.
“Never mind, ’twill be over soon,” gasped his brother.