"Yes, gran'father," said Ailie.
"Poor little deary maybe I've done wrong in consentin' to wait so long," said Job anxiously. "It's nigh too much for us both. But I can't do nothin' more to-night. Wall have to wait till mornin'."
The garret room grew still after that. They did not move or speak again for a while,—a long while. Darkness came on slowly, and they had no light, no fire. Utter darkness crept into the little garret. Yet upon one heart there, a ray of heaven's brightness was streaming, unseen by mortal eye,—unseen by little Ailie, as she crouched, weak and shivering, near the foot of the bed.
Morning broke at last, and as the light began to show through the room, there came a tap at the door. No answer was returned, and the tap was repeated, but with the same result. Then it creaked slightly, and Lettie's little face appeared inside, having vainly awaited an invitation to enter. After one glance, Lettie's eyes opened wide with fear, and she vanished. Two minutes later she reappeared, following Esther Forsyth.
"Why, I say, Mr. Kippis—are ye ill, both of ye?"
No answer came from Job when she bent over him, save a mutter, and the dim eyes were fixed. Ailie moaned, when Esther touched her.
"They're downright starved, both of 'em. An' I haven't a morsel left. Last scraps we had was eaten up last night. What'll we do?"
"I can't walk," said Ailie, rousing herself so far as to speak. "An' the little lady said she'd help us."
"What little lady? Sure the child's wanderin' in her head," said Esther.
"I ain't. 'Twas the little lady as spoke to me before; an' she telled me to go this mornin' an' she'd give me food, an' help us."