[CHAPTER III.]
AILIE'S CELLAR-HOME.
DOWN flight after flight went Esther Forsyth and little Ailie Carter. One or two rough men, returning from the public-house, staggered past them, and Ailie crept closer to her protector's side. One or two "women, dressed in unwomanly rags," came up the stairs, and exchanged a word of greeting with Esther.
Still they went on—past the second story, past the first story, past the ground-floor; past open doors, showing sleeping children huddled in rags; past closed doors, from which came the wailing of hungry infants; past other doors, whence issued sadder sounds of raised voices and angry discord. Past all these, and down stone stairs, leading to underground regions, where the air weighed heavy and dank. And then they stopped at a door.
Esther Forsyth pushed it open and went in, the child creeping after.
A bare cellar lay before them. Furniture had been parted with, piece by piece, in the long struggle for subsistence. Nothing of it was left, save the thin flock-bed in one corner, and the single broken chair in the middle. A tallow candle, in a candlestick, stood upon the chair, casting a glow upon the damp walls, the small window, and the sallow face of the sick man on his wretched couch. Nothing of sheet or blanket was visible—only an old piece of dirty carpet drawn over the sufferer. An old pipe and a tin saucepan stood side by side upon the mantel-shelf; and that was all.
Jem Carter was not alone. An aged woman stood beside him, and she turned her withered face towards the door when Esther entered.
"Be that Ailie Carter?" she demanded, in a hoarse whisper. "He be axin' after her sore, an' no one could tell nought of where she was. An' she a leavin' of her father to die alone, like a rat in a hole."
A cry broke from Ailie's lips.