“As the summer changed into autumn, and autumn gave way to winter, Norman’s little face seemed to grow better looking, all the while it was growing more pale and his little body more slim. It grew to be a contented, very quiet and patient face, and his eye took a clearness and openness it did not use to have; though he never was a bad-looking child. ‘He won’t live long,’ Mrs. Meadow said, after every Sunday.
“The little white dog all this while grew more white and curly and bright-eyed every day; or they all thought so.
“It was not till some time in January that at last Norman stopped coming for milk, and did not go by to the factory any more. It was in a severe bit of weather, when Mrs. Meadow was shut up with a bad cold; and some days were gone before she or Silky could get any news of him. Then, one cold evening, his mother came for milk, and to say that Norman was very ill and would like to see Lois and Mrs. Meadow. She was a miserable-looking woman, wretchedly dressed, and with a jaded, spiritless air, that seemed as if everything she cared for in life was gone, or she too poor to care for it. I thought Norman must have a sad home where she was. And his father must be much worse in another way, or his mother would not have such a look.
“Silky and Mrs. Meadow got ready directly. Silky put her purse in her pocket, as she generally did when she was going to see poor people, and wrapping up warm with cloaks and shawls and hoods, she and her mother set out. It was just sunset of a winter’s day; clear enough, but uncommonly cold.
“‘It will be dark by the time we come home, mother,’ said Silky.
“‘Yes, honey, but we can find the way,’ came from under Mrs. Meadow’s hood; and after that neither of them spoke a word.
“It was not a long way; they soon came to the edge of the town, and took a poor straggling street that ran where no good and comfortable buildings shewed themselves, or at least no good and comfortable homes. Some of the houses were decently well-built, but several families lived in each of them, and comfort seemed to be an unknown circumstance; at least after Mrs. Meadow’s nice kitchen, with the thick carpet, and blazing fire, and dark cupboard doors, these all looked so. The light grew dimmer and the air grew colder, as Mrs. Meadow and Silky went down the street; and Silky was trembling all over by the time they stopped at one of these brick dwelling-houses and went in.
“The front door stood open; nobody minded that; it was nobody’s business to shut it. They went in, through a dirty entry, and up stairs that nobody ever thought of cleaning, to the third story. There Mrs. Meadow first knocked, and then gently opened the door. A man was there, sitting over the fire; a wretched tallow-light on the table hardly shewed what he looked like. Mrs Meadow spoke with her usual pleasantness.
“‘Good evening, Mr. Finch. Can I see little Norman?’
“‘Yes,—I suppose so,’ the man said, in a gruff voice, and pointing to another door; ‘they’re in yonder.’