"Look 'ere," said a low voice, "be a good boy, and don't cry, and then I'll see if I can't get yer somethin' or other to eat." "But I'm 'ungry, Cherry," whispered the little one in answer, frightened by former experiences into keeping his woe within bounds, "and it's all cold and dark 'ere. I wish you'd take me to mother." A sharp pang shot across Cherry's heart, and she answered in a voice that held a sob only just restrained from breaking forth, "I can't, Dickie, you know as I can't. I would in a minute if I could; mother's gone a long way off." "In a train?" whispered Dickie. Cherry nodded. What did it matter, so that Dickie was pacified? she thought. "She promised as she'd take me," he said again, "and she never has. She never went a long way from Dickie 'afore." "No," whispered Cherry again, "no more she did from Cherry; but she couldn't help herself--mother couldn't. She was took." Dickie turned round wearily, and his little sister smoothed his hair and cheek, till by-and-by his gentle breathing told her that he was at last asleep. Then she raised herself a little and looked round stealthily. The room in which she lay was a good-sized one, and in each of the four corners, heaped together for warmth, the different members of four different families were huddled. Tattered rugs, shawls, and rags covered them from the biting February cold, and a flickering nightlight on a box in the middle of the room was the only gleam that revealed the shadowy misery congregated there. Though the poor little brother was asleep, and Cherry herself sorely needed repose, she still kept her wearied eyes open, watching the door fearfully. At last, overcome by fatigue, she forgot everything, till a slight moan from Dickie brought her back to the present, and she heard a voice close at her elbow say thickly-- "Well, yer can 'ave him: the worst on't is the gal; she'll take on if I say yes, awful." The words were spoken in a rough sort of undertone by a man who seemed by the sound of his voice to have been drinking heavily. The answer, from a woman who was already settling herself to sleep in her corner near, came in a hard distinct whisper-- "Never mind _her_! She'll fret a bit, but that'll be the end on it. She can't do nothing. Anybody 'ud know as 'tis better for 'im to be fed and clothed than left 'ere to starve." The man addressed was sensible of a sort of flash of memory, and a picture came up before his eyes. A neat, quiet home; an invalid wife sitting in a chair by the fire, tenderly holding a little frail boy; a crippled girl standing with her hand in the child's; a low hoarse voice pleading, "You'll take care of 'em, Tom! You'll let that dreadful drink alone, and feed them as are so helpless instead!" That was the picture, and as Tom heard the woman say what she proposed "was better than starving," he knew in his heart how cruelly he had broken the promise he had made to his dying wife.