"This is mother!" said John Shafto.
"And who have you brought home with you, Johnny?" she asked, holding out her hand to Sandy, as if she did not see his poor rags and dirty skin.
He did not know what to make of it; but she took his hand in hers, and gave it a warm, hearty clasp.
"He's lost his little sister in the streets last Tuesday," said John Shafto; "and I've brought him home to ask you what we must do, mother. You'll be sure to think of something. Now then, Sandy, you come in and sit down, and tell mother all about it."
He led the way into the house, and Mrs. Shafto gave Sandy a friendly push to follow him before her.
Inside the shop, on the counter, lay a little coffin, about the size that would fit Gip; and Sandy paused for an instant to look into it, as if, perhaps, he might see Gip's dear face and tiny limbs lying for ever at rest in it. But it was empty. And keeping down a sob which rose in his throat, he passed on into a small kitchen behind the undertaker's shop.
———◆———
[CHAPTER VI.]
MRS. SHAFTO.
IT was a very bright cosy little kitchen, with a clear fire burning in the grate, and not a single pinch of ashes on the hearth. The grate was an old-fashioned one, with well-brushed hobs, and two balls of steel on each side the fire, which glistened and sparkled like silver in the dancing flames. A polished brass warming pan hanging against the wall was bright enough to see one's face in. The floor was quarried with deep rich red tiles; and in a wide recess near the chimney stood a large cupboard, looking almost half the size of the room, and as if it promised plenty and to spare within it. In the warmest corner there was an easy-chair, with arms and back well padded, and covered with patchwork; and a pair of slippers lay on the warm hearth before it.