The boy left the room with a slow step, and wearily descended the stairs. I hope my young readers will never know the hungry craving after food which tormented the poor little boy as he made his way towards the street. But he had hardly reached the foot of the first staircase when he heard a low voice behind him, and, turning, beheld Mrs. Flanagan, who had hastily followed after him.
"Are you very hungry?" she asked.
"Yes, I'm faint with hunger."
"Poor boy!" she said, compassionately; "come in here a minute."
She opened the door of her own room which was just at the foot of the staircase, and gently pushed him in.
It was a room of the same general appearance as the one above, but was much neater looking.
"Biddy Flanagan isn't the woman to let a poor motherless child go hungry when she's a bit of bread or meat by her. Here, Mark, lad, sit down, and I'll soon bring you something that'll warm up your poor stomach."
She opened a cupboard, and brought out a plate containing a small quantity of cold beef, and two slices of bread.
"There's some better mate than you'll get of Mother Watson. It's cold, but it's good."
"She never gives me any meat at all," said Mark, gazing with a look of eager anticipation at the plate which to his famished eye looked so inviting.