Mother-Meg; or, The Story of Dickie's Attic. Catharine Shaw

      UT 'im down, 'e can walk as well as anythink."

      It was a cold day in May, when the sun was hidden behind leaden clouds, and the wind swept along the streets as if determined to clear them of every loiterer who should venture to assure himself that it was not March, and could not be so cold.

      The few people who had ventured out in spring clothing bid fair to "repent it many a day," and those who were happy enough to have winter wraps drew them closer, and hurried along, the sooner to get into some shelter. The omnibus men dashed their arms across their breasts for warmth, and everybody, gentle or simple, looked nipped up with the strong east wind.

      "Put 'im down," said a hard-featured woman, who was walking slowly along by the side of the road; "it won't matter 'is walkin' now."

      The man thus addressed was a thin, brow-beaten looking individual, who was carrying a child of some three years old in his arms. His clothes were threadbare, his knees peeped through his worn trousers, and his whole appearance was most deplorable. The woman by his side was as poorly clad as himself, outwardly at least, but seemed to suffer less from it. She was not thin, and if looked at closely, appeared to be well fed, and perhaps to have no lack of drink either. She carried a small infant in her arms, wrapped in a large dirty shawl.

      The three-year-old child had a pale, suffering little face, which looked as if tears were often very near. His eyes were terribly weak, and when he was set down by the man he looked as if he would have fallen. But the woman disengaged one of her hands, and said impatiently, dragging him towards her, "Come along, Dickie, none o' yer nonsense; walk on like a good boy."

      The child gave one glance at her stern face, and then tottered on silently, occasionally rubbing his poor little eyes with the back of his tiny hand.

      The wind met them round the corners; it seemed to be everywhere, and at every gust the miserable-looking party looked more miserable still.

      "How much 'ave yer took?" asked the man, as if he could turn and run home.

      The woman felt for her pocket, and after some fumbling she said in a low voice, "Two-and-eight, I should think."

      "Won't that do?" said the man, shivering. Then glancing sideways at the child, he went on, "'E'll not walk many more steps, and if you don't take care 'e'll not be hout to-morrer, nor next day neither; 'e's most done, 'e is."

      The woman turned round and was going to speak, when a respectable couple, dressed in warm cloth, silks, and furs, came in sight.

      In a moment her manner changed. "Take 'im up," she said in a wheedling tone, "'e's tired, 'e is, and cold; carry 'im a bit, George."

      The child, too cold and weary to care, was taken resistlessly into the man's arms, and laid his head on his shoulder, and the party paused, looking expectantly at the lady and gentleman who were fast approaching.

      "My good woman, this is a bitter day for such little ones to be out," said the gentleman kindly; "have you far to go?"

      "Over London Bridge, sir, down that way."

      "That's a long distance," he exclaimed; "and you all look perished with the cold."

      "That we are, sir," answered the woman, sniffing, "and my good man, sir, just now was a-saying that though we hadn't took a ha'penny, sir, this day, we must give it up. But it's hard to see 'em suffer, sir, and have no bread nor firing to give 'em."

      The man shook his head dolorously at each sentence, and the weak little child shut his eyes, as a fresh gust of wind seemed ready to blind him altogether.

      "That child ought not to be out on such a day as this at all," said the lady almost severely.

      "What is poor folk to do, my lady?" asked the woman, "there's no work, and there's no food; and surely we'd be better to get a bit of broken victuals or a copper from some Christian gentleman than to starve at home, like rats in a hole!"

      "Well, well," said the gentleman with a ponderous sigh, "it makes one's heart ache, Clarissa. Here, my good woman, go home now and buy some food and coals, and get that poor child warm."

      He gave her a shilling and passed on, and the woman, catching sight of a policeman whom she recognized bearing down upon them, they hastily turned the other way and set off in the direction of London Bridge as fast as they could go.

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