AS Mr. Kayll and Amy Coleson walked towards Bacton, the little girl found her voice, and talked away fast enough in a sober old-fashioned way.

“We live in lodgings, you know, and we owe lots of rent, but Mrs. Smith is so kind, and says she doesn’t mind waiting a bit longer, and she knows we’ll pay it as soon as we can; and sometimes she brings us a little beef-tea for baby, only not very often, because mother don’t much like it, and she don’t let her know how poor we are. Mother can’t bear for anyone to know. When father was alive it was quite different. I remember it very well; we lived at Barnes then, and there was only Kitty beside me until a little while after father died, and then baby came. She’s such a dear little thing with light yellow hair, and talks as plainly as I do nearly, and so patient—oh, she is so patient! But she can’t walk. We’ve tried so hard to teach her to walk, and once when she was stronger she nearly could, but then she got weaker afterwards and forgot it all again.”

Mr. Kayll was silently musing over this, noticing how the child always said “we,” as though she and her mother went together in everything, when a kind of sniff made him look down, and the light from the next gaslamp showed him that his little companion was quietly crying.

“Don’t do that, my dear,” he said kindly. “What’s the use? We’ll hope that the worst of your troubles are over now, though I don’t know that I can help you much. Still, I’ll do what I can.”

Amy hastened to dry her wet eyes, as though ashamed of the tears, gulped down a sob, and in a few minutes spoke as cheerfully as at first.

“You all looked so happy and so bright and comfortable at your home. Such a lot of you, too! It must be nice to have brothers. And that big girl, too; I did like her.”

They walked on again without talking. Mr. Kayll would almost have forgotten his little friend but for the hand holding so tightly to his, and all the more tightly when they met some noisy party of men arm in arm, shouting and singing as they came.

“Are you tired, my dear?” asked Mr. Kayll after a while, as he felt that she lagged slightly behind him.

“Rather,” she answered, quickening her steps for a few minutes, but gradually falling back into her old weary walk, dragging her unwilling feet along, with her shoes, much too large, flapping the pavement at every step. “I have been out all day, and it’s getting so late.”And as she grew more tired she ceased to chatter. On and on they went along the broad road crowded with foot-passengers, past the shops that were still open and brilliant with flaring gas-jets. Once more only before they reached their destination Amy spoke:

“Isn’t it funny,” she said, looking up at her companion, “to see all these shops and the heaps of people, and to hear them shouting and laughing, and then just to lift up your eyes and there are the stars?”

“Very,” said Mr. Kayll without thinking about it, for he had other matters on his mind; and if he had thought about it, it would have seemed to him the most natural thing that the stars should be overhead all the time.

Amy was silent. It was her private belief that everything was very strange—the world, the people in it, and the sky above; but no one she knew seemed to look upon it in quite the same light.

On and on, then suddenly to the right, and down a darker street for some distance, then to the left, up a narrower turning, and Amy stopped and said:

“This is Wingate Row, and here is our house.”

And a few minutes later Mr. Kayll was in a poorly-furnished room talking to a thin haggard-looking young widow, who was sitting beside a bed on which lay the sick baby with a face as white as the pillow. In the mixed pleasure and sadness of meeting his cousin again after so long an interval, and in such a way, he had no eyes to spare for anything else, and did not see the loving way in which little old-fashioned Amy bent over the invalid, softly kissing her, and whispering, “How are you, baby dear?”

She kneeled by the bed, holding the tiny white fingers, and doubling them up or opening them out, half playfully, half in forgetfulness of what she was doing, as she talked in a low voice meant only for baby’s ears.

“And now, my darling, you’ll soon be better, you know. Very, very soon. Shall I tell you where I’ve been? I’ve seen a lot of boys, and such a nice girl. They called her Madge. Madge! What a funny name, isn’t it?”

“What was she like?” lisped the little thing, twining her fingers in her sister’s wavy yellow hair, and softly pulling.

“Big. Not pretty, but with kind eyes, and she kissed me, and made me sit on her knee as though I had been as little as you, baby. And she gave me some supper, and was so nice. I wish you could see her. She didn’t talk much. I don’t remember that she said anything at all. It was only her way of looking, and holding my hand, and smiling. And there was a big solemn boy, and a smaller one, and a smaller one still. I suppose Kitty has been in bed ever so long, hasn’t she?” And she glanced towards the door of a small inner room that opened out of this one.

The baby nodded.

Meanwhile a long, earnest conversation was going on behind them between their mother and Mr. Kayll. The children did not hear what was said, for it was carried on in undertones, but the chink of coins reached their ears, and Amy’s eyes sparkled.

“If we had plenty of money, baby, how happy we could be, couldn’t we? But perhaps we shouldn’t be as fond of each other then as we are now; do you think we should?”

“Oh, yes, fonder,” said the tiny invalid, still playing with her sister’s curls that fell forward on the bed-clothes.

“I don’t so much wish to be very rich, and to have carriages and all sorts of beautiful things,” Amy went on dreamily, “but, oh dear! I should like always to be able to earn money if I worked hard, and to bring it home to you and mother and Kitty. But there isn’t any work to do. I believe the beggars, and the organ-grinders, and the girls selling flowers get ever so much more than we do. Oh, baby, I think it is funny that some people should have more money than they can possibly spend in all their lives, and we shouldn’t have any.”

The sick child’s blue-veined eyelids slowly closed. She could not understand all this, but the low sweet murmuring talk had soothed her to sleep, with her fingers tangled in the long soft hair.

Amy dared not move for fear of rousing her, and continued to kneel there in silence with her eyes fixed on the sleeping face. Poor baby! Was it likely that she would ever get strong and healthy, here in this narrow, crowded court, where no fresh air ever seemed to come, and very little sunshine was to be seen? Would she not linger on month after month, perhaps year after year, a weak little cripple, who must be carried or wheeled about always, for want of air and sunlight and good things now, before it was too late?

As she wondered in her old, old way, the voices of her mother and Mr. Kayll buzzed on until the buzz became fainter and fainter, as though it were getting further and further away, until it was inaudible in the far distance.

Amy’s head had sunk on the bed, and she was fast asleep.