"OH, how my eyes ache!"
The speaker, a weary-looking woman, was seated stitching away by the light of a single candle. She was a button-hole maker, so what wonder if her poor eyes did ache! To make button-holes from early morning till late at night is no easy task; but Mrs. Blundell was not usually a grumbler, and she rarely complained. To-night she was very tired, and a fear that had haunted her for months took strong hold upon her, and filled her soul with dismay. Supposing there should be something really amiss with her eyes—more than weariness? Supposing her precious sight should be really leaving her? She shuddered at the thought, for she had two children to support, and, as things were, existence was hard enough.
But Mrs. Blundell was one who always put a stout heart to a stiff hill. She had been country bred, and had come to London as a wife ten years ago. Her husband, a house painter by trade, had been led astray by evil companions, and had taken to drink and gambling. The downward path is always a swift one, and so it had been in John Blundell's case. When he had died, nearly two years since, he had left his widow and two little girls totally unprovided for; and Mrs. Blundell continued to work as a button-hole maker, as she had done during her husband's lifetime, in order to supply those necessaries which were so hard to provide.
"'As thy days, so shall thy strength be,' the poor woman had murmured to herself over and over again when the weight of care thrown upon her would have seemed unbearable except for that great promise. She had learnt to turn to her Heavenly Father for assistance in time of trouble, and trusted in Him with all her heart. But to-night she was wearied out, mentally and bodily; and as she glanced round the garret that was home to her and her children she shuddered at the thought that even this humble abode might not be theirs much longer.
"Mother!"
The voice, weak and plaintive in tone, proceeded from a bed in a corner of the room, where a little girl of about eight years of age was lying.
"Yes, my darling!"
The mother spoke in tender, caressing accents, which she strove to make cheerful for her sick child's sake. Little Annie was always ill. She suffered from a spinal complaint, and only Mrs. Blundell knew that it was the result of a fall she had had from her father's arms when an infant. John Blundell had been intoxicated when the accident had happened, and, though it had been a shock to him at the time, he had soon recovered from his fright, although Annie had never had a day's health since.
"Oh, mother, do put down your work, and rest your poor eyes!"
"Presently, my dear; I am not going to do much more to-night. Have you been asleep, Annie?"