‘Johnny’s clothes are warm, if they’re shabby,’ pursued Ann, ‘and there’s that poor little creature in rags, and barefoot. My heart aches for her, Sam. If it were our boy, and they’d nine shillings they didn’t want badly, what should we like them to do?’ ‘Well, Ann, I give up,’ he said; ‘after all, it’s your savings, not mine.’ Still he was not quite satisfied about it. That man in the attic was very probably a drunken vagabond, and deserved to be turned out for not paying his rent. To be sure he had been a tenant nearly a year, and had been quiet enough, meddling with nobody, and not putting himself in anybody’s way. Sam had not seen him above two or three times, and then he had only just caught sight of a thin, stooping figure, with a shabby old coat buttoned up to the throat, as if the man had no shirt to wear. Anyhow it was Ann’s business, and if any wife deserved to have her own way in a thing like this, it was his wife. Ann picked up the money, which was counted out to her, with a pleasant smile upon her face. It was snowing very fast when they opened the school-room door; but there was little Bell still, with her face pressed against the window and one foot drawn up out of the snow to keep it warmer. Ann called to her, and she ran quickly towards them. ‘I prayed to God for the money this morning,’ she said, looking wistfully up into Ann’s smiling face, ‘but He couldn’t have heard me, for He never sent it.’ ‘He’s going to send it now,’ answered Ann. ‘Will an angel come with it?’ she asked. ‘Ay!’ answered Sam, stooping down and lifting the child in his arms, for he was quite strong again, and she was too thin and puny to be much weight. He did not like to see her bare feet on the snow, and if Ann was going to do them a good turn, why should he not do another? ‘An angel with shining, white clothes on, and wings?’ said little Bell. ‘No; she’s wearing an old bonnet and a faded shawl,’ answered Sam, ‘and her wings aren’t grown yet, I’m glad to say.’ ‘For shame, Sam!’ cried his wife; but she was glad to hear from his voice that he was agreeing heartily with her self-denial. It was not far back to their home, but instead of turning into their own pleasant room they all marched up two flights of stairs to the attic. It was a low room with a shelving roof, and lighted by a skylight, of which two or three of the panes were broken, and a few stray snowflakes were floating in, and hardly melting in the chilly air. There was an old rusty stove instead of a fireplace, but no fire in it; and in one corner lay a hard mattress, on which they could see in the dim light the figure of a man, barely covered with a few clothes. As he lifted up his head to speak to them a racking cough choked him, and it was a minute or two before he could utter a word.