"That's the blanket. I don't know no one as would keep it for us, and so I put it there. Here's the money, and you can get it out for me, if you will, when we come back. I'd ha' come to you about it, only I didn't rightly know where you lived." It did not occur to Meg to explain where her home was at the moment, though afterwards it cost her many a pang that she had not done so. She was busy thinking about the blanket; and just as she had promised to do as Cherry wished about the pawn-ticket, Cherry's father came up the stairs and entered the room. It was the first time Meg had met him, and he stared in surprise at such a sweet vision in that desolate place. "This is a friend what came to see Dickie when he was ill, father," said Cherry in a deprecating tone. "Eh! Oh, well, Dickie's all right now; and the train 'ull be gone if you don't come at once. We shan't be back again for many a long day." He looked askance at Meg, and evidently waited for her to go. She bade a hasty good-bye to the children, and went down-stairs with a sad heart. So Meg lost sight of her little friends, and though in a month or two's time she went several times to their attic, she could hear nothing of them. The attic had other occupants, and the child and his crippled sister seemed forgotten. Meanwhile, the winter came and was passing away, while Meg was busy from morning till night. If she were not rendering efficient help to her mother-in-law, she had some work of her own, over which she bent with a happy look in her face which made it like sunshine. One morning as she was returning from fetching some yeast for her bread-making, for Meg had set up a regular practice of supplying her husband with her own baking, she entered the doorway just as the toddling girl belonging to the woman on the ground floor did the same. The little one was running at full speed, and before Meg could put out her hand to save her, she tripped over a bit of brick which was lying in her path, and down she came with her head against the stone doorstep. Meg quickly picked her up, and recognizing her, knocked at the door just as the child's mother ran to see what the screams were about. "I'm afraid she's hurt," she said, entering; "her head came right against the corner." "Dear, dear, dear!" exclaimed the mother, with an inward feeling that here was another misfortune; "I never did _see_ such children! There, child, leave off screaming and I'll see to yer." Though the words were rough, the face of the woman was not unkindly. Somehow Meg had never come across her before, and had been too shy to make any advances without being asked, though she had often pitied the poor woman as she passed and heard the crying babies and general hubbub. "Thank you, Mrs. Seymour," said the woman, taking the child from Meg's arms. "My! ain't it bleeding! Whatever shall I do?" "I should lay a wet rag on it," said Meg; "and then we can see how big the place is. Perhaps it isn't so much as it looks."