And now as the long-lingering light of day stole into that wretched attic-chamber, it brought out strange pictures. The yellow rays of the sun, striking obliquely through the window in the roof, fell upon the corner occupied by Meg and Lenny, and lighted up a picturesque group,—the beautiful, golden-haired, blue-eyed baby-boy, fair as one of Rafael’s pictured angels, with his rosy arms clasped around the neck of the wild, dark, gipsyish girl, who held him on her lap; and their surroundings,—the poor pallet, the little stone-jug of milk, the bare boards, and the broken walls. This was the only sunny scene in the room.
In the shadows were other scenes, best left in darkness,—the beldam in her foul bed, and the two men sprawling on the naked floor. All these were dead to all surrounding life, for they were heavily sleeping off the effects of the last night’s gin-drinking.
To return to the “sunny” spot occupied by the girl and the baby. She was still caressing him.
“Would Lenny like his breakfast now?” she asked.
“Yes, Lenny like breakfas’. But go in baf-tub first.”
“Go—where?” inquired the girl, quite bewildered.
“In baf-tub! baf-tub! baf-tub! wash!”
“Oh, bath-tub! My bonny bird, we have got no bath-tub here, but ‘Met’ will wash you clean—will she?”
“Yes, Met wash.”
“Will Lenny be afraid to stay here while ‘Met’ goes to fetch water?”