"I am not glad," said Jessie, with a quaver in her voice; "but I should like to come and talk to you as often as I can." Then presently she added, in a conflicting tone, "I don't know what to call your mother. I don't like to say 'Mrs. Lang,' it seems so-- so silly and--stuck-up, and I don't like to call her 'mother,' because, you see, she isn't mine at all, really." "I should," said Charlie decidedly. "I have to call your father 'father,' though I hate to. I don't like him. I hate him--he's-- he's unkind to mother!" and the pale face flushed and the sad eyes filled with the strength of other feeling. "Oh!" exclaimed Jessie, "you ought not to speak like that, I am sure. Why do you ha--why don't you like him?" "'Cause he's so unkind to mother. He is unkind to me, too, but I don't mind that, I don't see him often; but he's always going on at mother, he makes her miserable, and he--he hits her!" staring at Jessie with wide, horrified eyes. "We were so happy and comfortable before he came, but now everything seems all wrong, and mother is always unhappy, and--and I--I can't bear it." "Don't cry," said Jessie soothingly. "Did you live here always?" "Yes, and we had nice lodgers, and a nice house, and we had money enough for what we wanted, but father costs such a lot, and takes nearly all the money mother gets, and he won't give her any of it. He won't work himself, either. All the nice lodgers left because he made such rows in the house, and was always quarrelling; there's only one of them left, that's Miss Patch. She has the attic right at the top of the house. She went up there because it is quieter." He talked on eagerly in his old-fashioned way, his face flushing with weakness and excitement. It was such a rare treat to him to have any one to talk to, particularly any one of his own age--a sympathetic listener, too. "Do you know Miss Patch yet?" "No," said Jessie. "I only came last night very late. I've seen one lodger, a young man. He came down in the kitchen to his breakfast." "Oh, Tom Salter! You'll like him--I do. I want my breakfast, don't you?" "Yes," said Jessie, with a deep sigh. "I am _very_ hungry, but-- but--your mother said we would wait till father was gone." She hesitated over the term by which she should speak of her stepmother. Charlie noticed it. "I wish you'd call her 'mother,'" he said gently; "it would make us seem more like brother and sister, and I would love to have a sister. I've wished so often that I'd got one, or had got somebody to talk to, and read and play with me. Mother would like it, too. She isn't really cross, you know. She is only tired and worried. You see, she's got me to look after, and me and father to keep, and ever so many lodgers. I am so glad you're come to help her. I do long to be able to, and I can only give her extra trouble." He spoke with sad earnestness far beyond his age.