The children in Allumette’s home had sickened rather early. One little boy had died, whilst the rest were struggling back to convalescence, their recovery greatly retarded by the heat of the attic, and the bad air they constantly breathed.
Allumette had gone to her match-selling as usual for some considerable time. It was a relief to get out of the unwholesome place, and even the hot streets seemed almost fresh by comparison.
Yet never had the life of the streets seemed so hard or so uncongenial to little Allumette as they did upon her return from the gardener’s cottage at Hampstead.
She shrank from the rough words and rough ways of the boys and girls plying a like calling with herself as she had never shrunk from it before. They jeered at her, too, in her neater clothes, and made game of her when she spoke of what she had been doing in her absence. Her gentleman was not in London, and the days seemed so long and dreary. She could not eat the coarse food with the old relish, and the uncleanly odours of the court and of the attics where she lived, which before she had taken as a matter of course, now turned her sick.
She still snatched a few happy minutes when she could go and pay a visit to the old cobbler and his wife. Here she was doubly happy in being away from all that was foul and disagreeable, and in being able to talk freely to the old people of all the joys of those wonderful weeks in the studio.
She was never tired of telling, and they were never tired of hearing about them; and Allumette had left in their charge the picture-books Miss Madge had given her, and the Bible which had been young Mrs. Clayton’s parting gift. Allumette shared with her old friends all the knowledge she had come by during her stay in that wonderful house, and it comforted her to talk of Jesus and His love, and to try and believe that He saw and cared for her, just as much as He had done when she had been so happy and cared for. Moreover, old Gregg and his wife were always cheering her up by telling her that very soon she would be sent for into the country for a beautiful holiday.
“It’s not till the middle of July as folks begins to think much about holidays for children,” they would say. “August is the real month for it, but it begins before that sometimes. The young lady won’t forget, don’t you be afraid, little one. You’ll get a letter or a message one of these days, and then you’ll have fine times!”
So Allumette lived on in hope, and in spite of increasing languor and weakness kept a brave heart, and never forgot morning and night to say the little prayer taught her by Mrs. Clayton, always adding, “and please let Miss Madge remember about me!”
The sight of her gentleman’s face in the streets again had come like a ray of sunlight, and his kindness had warmed her heart. She thought, perhaps, he would say something to Miss Madge to remind her if she had forgotten. But Allumette did not believe Miss Madge would forget, only she did hope she would remember soon, for every day life seemed harder and work more burdensome, and at last she hardly knew how to drag her weary limbs over the hot pavements to her accustomed corner.
Then came the day when she dropped down in a giddy fit, just as she was going out as usual, and her stepmother said with a sort of kindly impatience—