"Where's your mother, child?"
"She's took up," and Ailie sobbed, though with her arms pressed yet more tightly, as if fighting to conquer her tears. "And father's dyin'—and it's awful to be with him all alone. I daren't—oh, don't make me! I wants mother!" moaned Ailie.
"Jem Carter dyin'! Well, it's what we all come to," said the woman, with despairing composure. She had spoken to Jem Carter and his wife occasionally, and in daylight she would have known by sight the forlorn child now cowering in front of her. But her home was near the top of the house, and Ailie's at the bottom. And the Carters, like many in their position, had known better days, and lived much to themselves in their cellar.
"Jem Carter dyin'!" repeated the woman. "And where's your mother took, child?"
Ailie shuddered visibly. "The p'lice," she whispered. "Mother said she couldn't bear it no more—to see father dyin' and cravin' after food, and not a sup nor a morsel in the house to give him. She were just crazed with hearin' him moan and groan, all day an' night, an' she walked right into a baker's shop, an' seized a loaf with one hand,—and a lady's purse with lots o' beautiful gold was a-lyin' on the counter, an' mother clutched it. They said she meant to steal that too, but she didn't—she didn't," repeated Ailie, breaking into a wail, like an animal in pain. "She were just crazed, an' snatched at it like, but didn't never think what she were doing, and she only wanted the loaf for father. He did moan so for some'at, an' he's wastin' away for want."
"Same as the rest on us," said the woman shortly. "I've eaten nought to-day, and I'm like to drop. Well, if he's dyin', it'll soon be over wi' him."
"Don't ye send me back," entreated the child, with sobbing catches in her breath. "I'll only sit here, an' be ever so quiet. Oh, don't! Father's never spoke a word since I telled him mother was took, an' he clutches with his fingers, an' makes a groanin' noise down in his throat, an' looks—an' looks—oh, I can't go back," sobbed Ailie. "I'd sooner sleep in the street all night. If only mother was here!"
"It'll be long enough afore ye see anythin' of her again, I can promise ye," muttered the woman. "Here, come along with me, child. Mary Carter's done me a good turn afore now, mindin' the children when I couldn't be with them, and I'll spare ye a crust of bread, if it's the last we have left."
Slowly as before, she went up the broad staircase, the fringed edges of her cotton gown dragging from step to step, where in olden days rich trains of jewelled satin had been wont to sweep. Ailie kept alongside with her, clinging close to the shelter of the blackened wall, but asking no questions, and seemingly willing enough to follow wherever she might be led. She would not have gone so readily down the stairs as up them, perhaps.
