ARCH was nearly over, when one night Jem woke to see Meg standing at the window. It was moonlight, and he could see her outline distinctly against the bright sky.

"Is anything the matter, Meg?" he asked anxiously.

"Hush!" exclaimed Meg earnestly. "Jem, night after night I hear the same. I thought it must be my fancy, but I'm certain it's not. There! can't you hear those screams?"

Jem got up and came to the window, more with the intention of soothing Meg than of listening to his neighbours. He had too long been used to London sights and sounds to be alarmed at a little crying in the night.

Meg held her breath, and on the night air were certainly borne unmistakable cries of some child, either in great fear or pain.

"Jem!" said Meg again in a frightened whisper, "which house did you say Dickie used to live in?"

"D'ye mean Dickie's attic?"

"Yes; where we went," said Meg, with her teeth chattering.

"Get into bed!" he implored. "Meg, you'll catch your death o' cold, my dear. I'll stay and listen here, if it 'ull do any good."

Meg retreated, and Jem gazed out into the dimness. Still he could hear what had so affected Meg, and as he looked, and his eyes became accustomed to the moonlight, which could not shine down into the depths of the courtyard below, but still shed a hazy light on it all, he began to see which-were-which of the houses behind; and could trace—there the back windows of a certain public-house—there the blank darkness of an empty building—and there the twinkling lights in houses which he knew to be general lodgings.

It was from one of these he fancied, up the next court, that the cries came; and as he stood reckoning it up, he turned to Meg and said,

"It is Dickie's attic, I believe! There's a light there, and people movin' back and forwards. Perhaps some one's ill."

"No," said Meg, sitting up, "it's nobody ill. It's some child being beaten or hurt. Oh, Jem, could you go and see—could you get in there, do you think?"

"Not to-night, my girl. But to-morrow I'll see if I can hear anything of it. It's the house where I worked, so they'll know me most like, and not think I'm intrudin' on 'em."

"Jem! that blanket weighs on me," said Meg with a sob. "Those children ought to have had it all this time; but whenever I've been up to the attic to see, the people have been so rough to me, and the other rooms were all let out to several families in each."

"I know," said Jem, coming away from the window, "and very likely he'd have took the children elsewhere, especially if he didn't want you to interfere with 'em, Meg."

Poor Meg, with a weary sigh she lay down on her pillow and tried to sleep. The house where they fancied the sound came from was so near theirs at right angles, that a conversation could be carried on from the back windows if any one had chosen.

As Meg lay wakeful and sad, she fancied she could still hear the cries, growing fainter and fainter, till either they ceased, or Meg ceased to be able to catch them.

The next morning Jem and she consulted as to what could be done; Jem averring, very truly, that "folks wouldn't stand people coming to make inquiries after crying children."

"I should not so much mind if it were not for Cherry's hints," said Meg; "but, Jem, I could make something, or you could buy a few oranges to take in your hand, and say you had brought them for Dickie if you could find him. Would that do?"

Jem promised to do his best, and went to his work revolving the matter in his mind. He bade a tender adieu to his wife, looked in her pale face, and told her she must not worry, but remember what she had tried to teach Mrs. Blunt—to cast her burden on the Lord, and find anew that He would sustain her.

He hastened away, and Meg cleared her table, and went up-stairs to speak to her mother-in-law.

It could not have been more than half-an-hour afterwards that she and Mrs. Seymour were coming down together, and Meg had just reached the bottom step at her own landing, when a man's voice was heard asking in a loud voice as he came up—

"Does any one live here belonging to a man of the name of Seymour?"

"Yes," answered Meg and her mother both together.

"Because he's been run over near the Monument, and they've taken him to 'Guy's.'"

Meg gave one wild look at her mother, held out her arms to catch something, and fell fainting on the floor.

Towards afternoon Meg opened her eyes at the sound of a beloved voice.

"My girl," he said, "don't ye know me? Look up, sweetheart! Here's Jem. And look what we've got sent us from our God! Meg, my girl, it was not your Jem as was hurt."

Meg gave a faint smile, and then she saw her mother-in-law bending over her, and putting into Jem's hand a spoon with something to give her.

She allowed him to feed her, and when the cup was empty she whispered—

"Jem, I thought——"

"You must not talk, my little woman; but now you're a bit better, would you like to see our little child? He was sent to us while you were so ill."

Meg tried to hold out her arms, but failed, and her mother-in-law laid a little babe in them. Meg said not a word, but pressed a kiss upon Jem's hand, and endeavoured to reach the downy little head. But she had no strength, and Mrs. Seymour, seeing her wish, and knowing too something else which neither of them guessed, raised the babe a little, that its mother's lips might touch its tiny face.

Meg was satisfied, and closed her eyes to sleep. "Husband and child," she thought, "who could be richer?" And then another thought came to rest her with its sweetness—"Who for your sakes became poor, that ye, through His poverty, might be rich."

Meg's lips moved, and Jem bent over her to hear.

"We'll teach him about Jesus first of all, Jem," she murmured; and as Jem assented, she slept.

But the little one was to be taken into the Shepherd's care at once. Meg was never to have her desire of herself teaching him the name she loved beyond all others.

Mrs. Seymour stood by and watched, unwilling to break the slumber which was like life to Meg, and knowing that nothing could be done for the babe better than lying in its mother's bosom.

And Jem sat watching too, realizing in a dim sort of way that he was indeed a father.

By-and-by his mother touched him on the shoulder.

"Jem," she whispered, cautioning him by a warning glance, "God is taking the little one to Himself; but I think Meg will do well if we can but keep her quiet."

Jem gave one look at her to take in the meaning of her words, and then he sat still, trying to realize and submit to what his God was sending.

When, after two long hours of watching on their part, and deep refreshing sleep on Meg's, she again opened her eyes and turned to her babe, the little spirit had already taken flight to the land where "their angels do alway behold the face of the Father which is in heaven."

"Meg, my girl," said Jem's voice, oh, so tenderly, "you'd be willin' to give him up into our Saviour's care if He was to ask it?"

"I think I would," she answered in a wondering tone, but looking up quite collectedly.

"Because I think the Good Shepherd has been callin' him, my dear."

Meg could turn her head now; she raised herself on her elbow, and gazed at the little face.

"Jem," she said helplessly, and laid her head back on her pillow with a sob.

Her mother-in-law bent over her.

"Let me take him for a little while, my child; it will be better so."

Meg made no objection, and her mother lifted the tiny form to her lap, and crossed its wee hands on its breast.

"May it go in my cradle, just for once?" asked Meg beseechingly.

And so he was laid in the little cot that Meg had prepared with such loving hands, and Jem put it on a chair by her side; and then he sat down again by her, and they both wept together.

After a long time Meg wiped away her tears.

"Jem," she said softly, "I can say it now: 'The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord.'"

Jem and his mother watched by her side till the clock in the other room struck twelve, and then Mrs. Seymour signed to him to go and take some rest.

But though not a word had been spoken nor a movement made, Meg started up.

"There it is again!"

"What, my dear?" asked Mrs. Seymour soothingly. "Lie down, and I'll see to it."

But Meg could not be silenced so.

"Jem," she urged, doing, however, as her mother wished, "Jem, you said you'd go and see about it. Oh, Jem dear, my heart will break!"

"I will, Meg," he answered at once. "You're bein' so ill put it out of my head. I'll go at once."

He rose, and his mother followed him out of the room.

"I think she's a bit light-headed, Jem; don't go out, my dear. What does she mean?"

"I know," answered Jem hurriedly. "Let me go, mother; I ought to have been there ever so long ago."

He went, and Meg lay wide awake listening. She took the gruel her mother brought her, and pronounced herself much better. Often her eyes rested on the little cot, but she did not cry, nor did she say anything about it.

Once she asked hesitatingly—

"Mother, did I dream it, or did some one say that Jem was dead?"

"It was a mistake," answered Mrs. Seymour, "a cruel carelessness. It was a man of the name of Seymour, who lives, we find, in the second house up the court, and people sent them here. 'Twas a cruel thing to say it out like that!"

Meg asked no more, and before long she heard Jem's step coming up the stairs and entering the room.

He came softly to her bedside, and then, as if he could no longer bear it, he threw himself on his knees and wept bitterly.

Meg put out her hand and touched his head.

"Jem dear?" she questioned; while Mrs. Seymour laid a firm hand on his arm, and said gravely—

"Don't give way so, my son, or you'll worry her."

But Jem was wholly overcome.

"It might ha' been ours, it might ha' been ours!" he said, over and over again, till Mrs. Seymour was quite beside herself.

"Tell me, Jem," said Meg gently. "Have you found Dickie?"

He nodded.

"Was he being hurt?" she asked again.

He nodded again.

"How?"

Jem shivered.

"How I shall never tell to mortal being!" he exclaimed; "but it was something they are doing to his eyes."

"His eyes?" said Meg, leaning up. "Oh, Jem, do tell me quick!"

"To make them bad, to get more money by begging," said Jem, as if the words were forced from him; "and his father's dying in the hospital, and he'll be left to their mercy!"

"Can't you fetch him here?" asked Meg.

Jem looked up.

"Meg! could we—now? You and me was talkin' of it this mornin'. They'll be orphans to-morrow."

Meg smiled a weak sweet smile as she looked towards the cot.

"Bring him if you can," she answered, "and Cherry too."

Mrs. Seymour could hardly follow the course of their thoughts, for she knew so little of what had gone before, and when Jem rose up and left the house for the second time, she was too astonished to protest.

This time he was gone longer than before, and Meg ate what her mother brought, and dozed quietly.

After some time his step was again heard, and he came quickly up.

Meg's eyes opened, and she listened intently. Yes, that was his step, and after it surely, surely, there was the halting one of poor little Cherry.

Jem opened the door and came softly in.

"Meg," he said, in a smothered voice, "God has sent us two little children instead of the one He's took to Himself. Here is Dickie for you to comfort."

Meg opened her arms, and Jem laid Dickie in them.

"No one shan't hurt you any more, Dickie, while we live," he said; "don't you have any more fear."

The child had given one rapid glance at Meg's face, and the moment he recognized her he nestled down confidently in her arms, while Cherry stood by with happy tears running down her cheeks.

"It's a solemn charge, Jem," said his mother.

"Cherry says she's been askin' Jesus to find a home for him for ever so long, and now it's come," answered Jem.

"Cherry, child," said Mrs. Seymour, "you come up with me, and I'll put you to bed, and to-morrow we'll talk it all over."

"Yes, to-morrow I must go and see their father at the hospital. I trust he'll live till then."

"You won't be 'fraid for 'Cherry' to go to bed, Dickie?" asked the little girl, looking down on him as he lay.

Dickie shook his head.

"I'll stay along of mo'ver-Meg," he said.

Jem sat down, quite overcome, and drew the trembling little Cherry within his kind arm.

Her eyes were wandering round the cosy bedroom, which reminded her so forcibly of her mother's; and when she saw the cot, she thought how lovely it would be to have a baby to hold. But when Jem saw her glance resting there he whispered softly, so as not to disturb Meg,

"The little 'un's gone to be with God, Cherry; you and Dickie is come to us instead."

Cherry's eyes filled with tears, and she laid her head on Jem's kind shoulder, repressing her sobs by a great effort.

"Cherry," said Mrs. Seymour, "there's my bed up-stairs, you shall have a good sleep on that; come along, child, or it will be morning."

Cherry looked towards Dickie, as if even now loth to let him out of her sight.

"Stay," added Mrs. Seymour; "let's have a cup of tea first, and some bread and milk for Dickie. I dare say you haven't had much? I had just made some before you came."

Cherry shook her head.

Mrs. Seymour soon put a steaming cup into Jem's hand, and another into Cherry's. Then she cut some bread for them, and placed some in Meg's little saucepan for the child. After which she went to the bed and took him out, telling Meg she should soon have him again if she wished, but that he was hungry.

Meg was too tired and peaceful to say a word. "He does all things well," she thought, and lay quietly sleeping, not noticing the hushed noises which were going on around her.

She had no idea that Jem left her to lie down on the sofa in the next room; nor that her mother-in-law took little Dickie on her knee and fed him tenderly; nor that she bathed his eyes with warm water; nor that she refilled the baby's bath, and with Cherry's help undressed and bathed him.

"It is nice," said the poor little fellow, as the kind old woman sat with him on her lap before the fire, and slipped over his head a clean warm little nightgown brought down from her airing-horse up-stairs.

"It's Mrs. Blunt's," she explained to Cherry; "but I'm not a bit afraid but what she'll lend it to him for a night or two. Wasn't it fortunate that she happened to send it in amongst the sheets I do for her? She don't ever send me these sort of things, but this one came for the purpose, I do believe! Don't he look different?"

"He do indeed," answered poor little yawning Cherry. "I never see him look so nice since mother used to undress him. I did the best I could, ma'am, but it was so dreadful hard to keep 'im clean."

Mrs. Seymour shook her head kindly.

"I know it was, child," she said.

She was going to add that she did not know how her Jem was going to support two children; but a glance at Cherry's happy face stopped her, and she only added softly—

"You can wash your face and hands too, child, and then you shall go to bed."

"Are you goin' to bed?" whispered Cherry.

"Not to-night, my dear," glancing towards Meg, "but I'll doze a bit in this chair. Now, Dickie, shall I put you back in the nice warm bed with Meg, as I promised?"

Dickie nodded.

She rose, and opening the clothes as gently as she could, she put the clean warm little boy close to Meg's side.

Meg instantly felt him, and understood enough, without rousing herself, to say in a soft little tone of endearment—

"Come along, Dickie; you won't mind staying with me?"

"No; I'll stay along of mo'ver-Meg," said Dickie; and as he said it, he put his thin little arms about her neck and kissed her. Then without another word they both sank into dreamless slumber.