“Yes, please, sir.” The door opened and the two brothers came in together—Black Bill, with a small, coarse, cradle-blanket on his arm; and Red Roger, with a mug in his hand. Everage himself took the purchases from them, and gave them into the keeping of the girl, whom he trusted more than all the rest of the gang. Then he waited until he saw Meg undress the child and put it in his clean, patched night-gown, while little Lenny slept heavily the sleep of fatigue through the whole process. “Now, if you will hold him on your knees half a minute, I’ll spread his pallet,” said the girl, laying the child on the lap of Everage. As soon as his pallet was prepared, she took him, still sleeping, and laid him on it, covering him over with his own little mantle. “And you’d better keep the milk handy so as to give it to him to drink if he should wake hungry or thirsty,” said Everage. “Yes, sir, I will. I will just fling myself down on the floor by his pallet, and take care of him, sir,” replied Meg. “And you shall not go unrewarded for your care of him,” said the poor gentleman loftily. And then, having given his confederates an extra caution in regard to the child, and promised, or rather threatened, to look in the next night, Everage left the house and bent his steps homeward. Surely little Lenny’s guardian angel inspired poor Meg that night. She laid herself down on the bare boards beside his pallet, and resting her head upon her bent arm, with her face towards the child, watched him until she became too drowsy to keep her eyes open; and even then she slept like a watch dog, on the alert, and at the slightest motion of her charge she would wake up to see if he wanted water, or milk, or to spread the mantle over him. But Lenny slept soundly until morning. At his usual time of waking, a little after sunrise, he opened his eyes. At first he stared around himself in utter bewilderment. Then he saw Meg bending over him, and he recognized her face, and he remembered the incidents of the preceding night. “Why didn’t you, Met?” he inquired, looking reproachfully in her face. “Why didn’t I do what, my pretty?” smiled the girl. “Wate me up when Doosa tomed.” “But Doosa didn’t come, my pretty bird.” “Doosa didn’t tome?” “No, pretty.” “But Doosa say she tome.” “So she did; but then she said she couldn’t, and now she says she will come to-day.” “Tome to-day?” “Yes.” “Tome soon?” “Yes.” Lenny smiled, and then all out of season, he remembered a certain matutinal formula that he had forgotten under his unusual circumstances, and he suddenly said: “Dood mornin’, Met!” Meg, taken all aback by this unexpected salutation, did not respond. “Dood mornin’, Met. Why don’t you say dood mornin’ to me?” “Good morning, pretty bird.” “Me not pretty bird—me ’ittle boy.” “Good morning, little boy.” “Tiss dood mornin’, Met.” The girl caught him up in her arms and kissed him enthusiastically.