There on the flock-bed lay Jem Carter—silent, motionless, with closed eyes, and powerless hands. And there across his feet lay little Ailie, with one arm thrown under her head, and a troubled look in her childish face. Poor little fatherless Ailie!
Yes, he was dead! Untended and unwatched, he had passed away from his cellar-home. But the one faint cry to the Saviour of the world, out of the depths of his darkness, was surely not unheard, and poor Jem Carter, in his last extremity, was surely not "forgotten."
[CHAPTER IV.]
WHAT TO DO WITH AILIE?
SOMEWHAT late the following evening, John Forsyth walked into his room, and sat down at the table. Esther opened her lips to speak, but shut them again hastily, as she noted his moody expression. He glanced at the younger children, huddled in a heap upon the floor, and frowned at the sight of Ailie Carter, curled up asleep in a corner, Lettie being seated by her side, as if keeping guard over the forlorn little stranger.
"What's that child here for?" he demanded.
"She's got nowhere else to go to," responded Esther.
"Got no supper for me, I s'pose," said John gruffly.
Esther went to the cupboard, and brought thence a hunch of bread and a lump of cheese. John disposed of them both in silence, with the expedition of a man who has not broken fast for many hours.