"Poor Isabel!—poor little Isabel!" said Mary, laying her thin hand upon the child's head, and turning her mournful look on Joseph, who met the glance with a sorrowful shake of the head.
"I am tired out, Mary. It seemed to me a little while ago, that I was dying; and if it hadn't been for thinking that you would be left alone, I should have been glad of it."
"Oh, don't, Isabel, don't talk in that way!" said Mary, "you are tired and hungry—she must be hungry," and Mary looked at the boy. "See how the shadows are slanting this way, and she hasn't tasted a mouthful since last night."
"I don't know; I hadn't thought of it—but I believe I am hungry," and the big tears rolled over Isabel's cheeks.
Mary arose and placed that little weary head upon the seat of her chair.
"She isn't used to it, like us," she said, addressing the boy.
"No," he answered, "she can't be expected to stand it as we should. I hope you have got something for her to eat; we haven't a mouthful up stairs, I'm afraid!"
Mary went to the cupboard. It was empty—not a crust was there save the supper which had been put away for poor Chester the night before. Mary hesitated—it seemed terrible to offer that food to the poor child, and yet there was nothing else. Mary went up to Isabel, and whispered to her.
"Have you a sixpence—or only a penny or two left of the money?"
"No," replied Isabel, with a sob. "I spent the last for ice, and when I came back with it, she wasn't in the room. I flung the ice on the stand, and ran out into the street after her, but you know how it was—she has gone like him."