"It's bad, isn't it now, my poor girl?" said the old man.

"It's like kuives," said Marina,

"You'd best go to bed. You're good for nothing more this evening," said Martha roughly. "There, put your work by and have done. It's no earthly use sitting up idle. You'd best go to bed, both of you."

Marina made no attempt at resistance. She seemed to have no will or spirit of her

own.

Martha snatched away the unfinished skirt and folded it up, while Keyn said pleadingly" Patty, be gentle with her-now do." Martha flamed up at that, and turned round upon him sharply. "Gentle with her! Who's ever gentle with me, I wonder? and what's Marina that she's to be treated like a fine lady? Gentle indeed! I don't count her one bit better than ourselves-not one bit. If it wasn't for her, we shouldn't be brought to this pass. She counts herself mighty genteel, I make no doubt, but genteel beggars are not worth much. I'm sick and tired of all that sort of nonsense. She has been coddled and cosseted like a fine lady, till she isn't worth her salt. If Brose had chosen the wife I wanted for him, there'd have been somebody for us to lean upon in our old age, not a log to be carried. Don't talk to me of gentleness. I've been as good to her as if she was my own child, and a deal of gratitude I get back."

Keyn had not meant to rouse so sharp a breeze. He gave Marina an apologetic glance, and then sat through it submissively. The other two did the same, and for a while no words were spoken in answer, only Clarrie listened with wide-open eyes of a childish indignation, which ended at length in a childish outburst-" Mother isn't a log, she isn't!"

"Go to bed this moment, Clarrie."

The tone was not to be trifled with, and Clarrie went off at once, half sobbing in fear and anger; but she did not go alone. Marina rose and slowly followed, mounting each step with pain, and when the two stood in their bare little garret bedroom, Keyn too was with them. He said nothing at first, and Marina sat down on the side of the bed, moaning, while the old man and the child stood looking at her.

9

"It's bad, very bad for her," said Keyn. "She's hungry and empty, I shouldn't wonder. And so's Clarrie."

"I'm very very hungry,". Clarrie sobbed in answer.

66

"Poor dear!" and Keyn stroked the top of. her fair head with his wrinkled hand. Yes, it's bad for you too. If grannie was in a different sort of a humour she'd let me go this minute and get a loaf on trust. We pay so regular for everything, they wouldn't mind. But grannie won't have it: no good asking, you know, Clarrie. I saw that as soon as ever I came in. She's rampant tonight, and when she's rampant she don't care a morsel for eating, and she'd just be at me for wanting to run into debt if I said a word, so I durstn't. We'll have to get along till the morning, and maybe she'll wake up hungry, and won't be rampant neither."

"And maybe it'll be warm, and we'll get some jobs," said Clarrie.

"Yes, yes, if it should turn warm, so as folks should get to wanting parasols all of a hurry, why, dear me, we'd get on finely," said Keyn, who was naturally of a hopeful temperament. "Anyway something 'll turn up somehow, Clarrie, never you fear. God Almighty won't forsake His creatures." "Is mother and me and creatures ?" asked Clarrie.

you His

"Sure enough," said Keyn, unknowingly giving an impression to the childish mind that the three enjoyed a distinction in so being..

"I wish He'd give us something to eat," murmured Clarrie.

"Shouldn't wonder if He did to morrow," said Keyn.

But neither he nor Clarrie dreamt of such a thing as kneeling down to ask God that their needs might be supplied.

CHAPTER III.

WILLIE.

"KNIVES and scissors to grind! Knives and scissors to grind! Any knives and scissors to grind to-day ?"

It was a lad of about fourteen whose clear tones rang out thus freely. He was tidily dressed, and his face had an open honest look

in it. People did not always notice at first that the two sleeves of his jacket hung loose and empty by his two sides, for the boy's merry countenance was apt to engross attention. He did not push the grinding-machine. A grown-up man undertook that work-a solemn-faced silent man, old enough to be the lad's father. Strangers would naturally have supposed the two to be father and son, but they were not.

"Knives and scissors, knives and scissors to grind! Any knives and scissors to grind to-day? Knives and scissors to gri-i-n-d? Hallo, mate, here's a go!"

For passing quickly round a corner, the man and boy found themselves on the outskirts of a small crowd. And through an opening in the crowd they could see an old man sitting on the ground, as if he had fallen there, with his back leaning against the wall, and his long white hair moving to and fro in the wind. There was something about him eminently respectable, albeit his coat showed tokens of long service.

"Hallo, mate, here's a go!" shouted the boy. "What's up?-eh? Anybody been

"Why, she's a regular little spit-fire," rejoined the other. "As uppish as a cocksparrow! But you needn't be vexed, child. How's a man to know? Who is your grandfather ? "

"It's old Keyn,-he's always going about, mending of brellas,"" said another. "It's true what she says. He's steady enough. Took with a sort of dizziness-like in his head, I shouldn't wonder."

"He'll be well enough. Don't you be afraid," said the last speaker encouragingly. "It's just a dizzy fit. Don't you get into a taking. He'll be all right soon.”

By this time the knife and scissor boy had worked his way through the little crowd, and was close to Clarrie, glancing from one to another present with his bright clear eyes.

"What ails you?" he cheerily asked. "Hungry?"

Strange to say, nobody had gone to the root of the matter before. Perhaps the reason was that both the old man and the little girl, though dressed in threadbare garments, had about them a certain something far su perior to the ordinary run of street tramps. Rags and hunger are commonly, but not always rightly, associated together in people's minds.

Clarrie's face was not difficult to read. "Guessed it, I did. Here, mate, ma-a-te!" called the boy.

A queer grumpy voice made answer, in sounds not to be distinguished as words by an unpractised ear.

"That's my mate. He's got some'at wrong with the roof of his mouth, and don't speak plain," said the boy, in explanation to Clarrie. "He's a good fellow I can tell you, for all that. I say, mate!"

The man came near, pushing his grinding machine upon its well-oiled wheels. The boy made a dive with his head at the back part of it, and brought away a spotted red handkerchief, the knotted corners of which he held with his teeth.

"Here, mate,-give un a bite," said the lad, speaking with difficulty under. the circumstances.

The man took the bundle, untied the corners, and produced a hunch of bread with a lump of cheese. He looked at the old man, and then looked at the boy, with some utterance in an inquiring tone. Words were again undistinguishable.

"Every crumb of it," was the prompt re

to-day."