And even the next day, when Dickie woke, and old Sairy handed him a piece of bread, Cherry took the matter with equanimity, saying to herself over and over again, "I've told Jesus, and He's goin' to see to it." But when Dickie had eaten the bread ravenously, he turned his little face back again to Cherry's shoulder, and said with a shudder, "Don't yer let me go 'long o' them, Cherry, don't yer!" Then Cherry's heart misgave her, and she looked at her still sleeping father, and then at old Sairy, as if to measure her possibility of resistance. But Sairy gave her a glance which withered her up, like the raw February air which was rushing in at the open door, and hissed out in an undertone which made her shiver, "If yer don't mind what yer about, it 'ull be the worse for _'im_, and that I tell yer." An hour after, when she saw them set off as of old, the man with Dickie, and old Sairy with somebody's wailing baby, her heart died within her. The room had almost cleared. Only a weakly young mother with her babe were left, and two sleeping drunken men. As Cherry lifted her heavy sorrowful eyes they met those of the woman. "Come 'ere, dear," she said gently; "don't you take on about the little 'un. It won't 'urt 'im to be out o' doors, and if you 'aven't food to give 'im, ain't it a deal better as they should feed 'im? I 'eard what them two said last night, and it's true as he's pretty nigh starvin'." "Yes, but you don't know," whispered Cherry, looking round fearfully; "if it was only taking him out I shouldn't care; but--" At this moment her father roused up and shook himself. "Eh, gal, so they're gone?" with a coarse laugh; "and to-night we'll get a bit of supper, and some'ut to drink." [Illustration] [Illustration: "Then the woman seizes Dickie again, and begins to tie somethin' on his eyes, and he fights and screams with all his little might."--p. 136.] [Illustration] CHAPTER XII. "INASMUCH." March was nearly over, when one night Jem woke to see Meg standing at the window. It was moonlight, and he could see her outline distinctly against the bright sky. "Is anything the matter, Meg?" he asked anxiously. "Hush!" exclaimed Meg earnestly. "Jem, night after night I hear the same. I thought it must be my fancy, but I'm certain it's not. There! can't you hear those screams?" Jem got up and came to the window, more with the intention of soothing Meg than of listening to his neighbours. He had too long been used to London sights and sounds to be alarmed at a little crying in the night. Meg held her breath, and on the night air were certainly borne unmistakable cries of some child, either in great fear or pain. "Jem!" said Meg again in a frightened whisper, "which house did you say Dickie used to live in?" "D'ye mean Dickie's attic?" "Yes; where we went," said Meg, with her teeth chattering. "Get into bed!" he implored. "Meg, you'll catch your death o' cold, my dear. I'll stay and listen here, if it 'ull do any good."