Part 21 (2/2)

”'Come, Cherry,' I says to her, 'there's them outside as will see justice done this time. Come along with me; put that shawl round d.i.c.kie, and never you fear, my dear.'

”Then I turned to her as they call old Sairy--'As for you,' says I, 'if you're ever seen with such another little 'un as this, I'll give you in charge that instant!'

”Cherry lifted d.i.c.kie up, but she was too sore to carry him. So I took him in my arms, and he clung round my neck, and so we come away. The woman was too scared to say a word, but I think as she caught sight of the p'liceman's helmet as we went down.”

Mrs. Seymour sat with her breakfast almost untasted.

”Oh, G.o.d be thanked as they are safe,” she said at last. ”Jem, you did quite right.”

”I think as I did,” he answered; ”but it's a cruel world, mother.”

”And that child, Cherry, said as she was praying for a home?” asked Mrs.

Seymour presently.

”Yes; she told me so as we come along. Her little heart was near breakin'.”

Mrs. Seymour said no more, but went into the back room to see if Meg had waked. Still she and d.i.c.kie slept; so leaving the door ajar, she ascended to her own rooms, taking a cup of tea in her hand for her lodger.

She found her awake, and very glad of the tea and the latest news. While they were talking Cherry raised her head from her pillow and looked round startled. Then she saw Mrs. Seymour's kind face, and understood it all.

”Have you slept long enough, my dear?” she asked.

”I think so; when I opened my eyes at first I thought it was two years ago, and that this was our home before father took to drink so bad.”

”Did your mother die since then?”

”Yes,” said Cherry; ”I forget exactly, but one thing I know, she was dreadfully ill on Christmas Day--not this last one, nor the one before that, but two years ago--and she died in a few days. Soon after that father got bad; he used to drink afore, but not so much; and then our things went one by one, and at last----” Cherry shuddered.

”At last?” questioned Mrs. Seymour.

”He got tired of me askin' for food for me and d.i.c.kie, and we'd been a long time livin' in that big room where's there's such a lot of 'em, and then he agrees with old Sairy to take d.i.c.kie out with her, and let him share the profits; and he was out with 'em for I should say nigh on six months. At last d.i.c.kie was took so ill that he couldn't walk another step, and for a long time I thought he'd 'a died; I wished he had.”

”And was that when you began to know my Meg?”

”Yes. Oh, she was awful kind to us. And then we went hoppin', and father and me earned a lot; but he hadn't been home but a little while afore he'd drunk up every bit of it, and then he thinks of sendin' d.i.c.kie out ag'in; and then they was that cruel to us both. Look here!”

She undid some of her poor little dress, and bared her thin, deformed shoulders. They were scarred with red seams and black and blue lines.

”Why did they beat you?” asked Mrs. Seymour, her face turning white at the sight.

”'Cause I wouldn't let 'em hurt d.i.c.kie, not while I could hold 'em back; but it weren't of no use, they always got the best of me at the end.”

”Poor little girl,” said Mrs. Seymour, stroking Cherry's head tenderly; ”poor little motherless girl!”

Cherry's eyes looked up gratefully.

”Oh, ma'am,” she exclaimed earnestly, ”if they'll keep d.i.c.kie safe from old Sairy I'll do anything for 'em--anything in the world that I can. I can learn things pretty quick--mother used to say so. Do you think as you could teach me anything?”

”I think we can, Cherry, if you're a good girl.”

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