THE floor on which the Forsyths lived was immediately below the garrets, and they too were inhabited. One sheltered a father, mother, and six children. In another a sickly shoemaker lived with his four little ones. The third was rented by old Job Kippis.
It was a small room, and it had not been his home long, for he had only moved into this locality a week or two earlier, so as to be near a fresh opening in the way of work. But already it had a home-like appearance. Not that Job Kippis was otherwise than poor—very poor. The room contained but a scanty supply of furniture. There was an old iron bedstead in one corner, with a patched coverlid laid over it; a square table, standing against the wall; a chair, supported rather insecurely upon three legs; and the board in the window, upon which Job Kippis did his tailoring work. But the floor had been well scrubbed, and the walls were clean, though bare; the small window-panes were free from cobwebs, and the table and chair showed signs of many a rubbing. A couple of common china ornaments stood upon the narrow mantel-shelf, and over it was pinned up a large "Illustrated News" likeness of the Duke of Wellington.
Seated in the window, close under the sloping roof, sat Job Kippis, striving to catch the last beams of departing daylight. Judging from his appearance, he must have been close upon seventy—a tall man in past years, though age and long stooping over his work had rounded his shoulders and diminished his height. His clothes, albeit old and threadbare, were clean and carefully mended. And the man himself, with his broad deeply-furrowed forehead, and thoughtful eyes, and thick silvery hair, had something about him of calm purpose and trust and peace combined, not often to be seen among the unhappy crowds of neglected beings who peopled this district.
Increasing darkness at length compelled him to cease his toil, and to lay aside the red cloth, the brilliant colouring of which formed such a contrast to his own faded clothing. He took a look across at the opposite garret-windows, where two or three consumptive-looking men, hitherto engaged in the same occupation as himself, were likewise laying it aside, or resuming their stitching by the dim light of tallow candles.
Job Kippis folded up his work carefully, then went to a square closet, almost as large as a tiny room, whence he brought some bread and cheese. These occupied him for some time. After that he went opposite the fireplace, and took a good look at the likeness.
"He was a man, was the Duke," muttered Job. "I'll never see his like again, nor England won't neither, I fancy. I'd give a deal to see him once more—just to look on his face. Well, there's many a thing I'd like, maybe, but I've got no reason to complain. Good eyesight, and steady hands, free from rheumatiz, is a thing to be thankful for at my age. I'm getting old now, and I can't expect not to be a-breaking down some day. Well, if that day comes, I've my savings, and when they're gone—"
Job paused, looked towards the strip of blue sky visible through a mist of smoke, and a smile broke over his face.
"Why, then I've a Father as 'll take care o' me, to be sure. Maybe He'll let me go to workhouse. I hopes not, sure enough. But maybe it'll be good for old Job's pride. Then I'll have to go cheerful, an' bear it without grumblin', if so be 'tis His will. Sure the Lord's as present in the workhouse as He is up here this minute. Isn't He just everywhere?"
Smiling still, and rubbing his brown firm hands together, Job gazed up for a moment, then moved towards the door.
"Think I'll get a taste o' fresh air this evening. I must begin to save my old eyes now, and let 'em rest at times. Why, just to look at those poor fellows over the way, and this side too—four children, five children, six children, all a-growing, and needing clothes and food. However they keep soul and body together, I don't know. But there's One as sees the sparrows fall. He knows it all—don't He, now?"