Who raised her head upon his coming in and asking:
′Where did you go, Liz?′
′I went out in the dark.′
′There was no necessity for that. It was all right enough.′
′One of the gentlemen, the one who didn′t speak while I was there, looked hard at me. And I was afraid he might know what my face meant. But there! Don′t mind me, Charley! I was all in a tremble of another sort when you owned to father you could write a little.′
′Ah! But I made believe I wrote so badly, as that it was odds if any one could read it. And when I wrote slowest and smeared but with my finger most, father was best pleased, as he stood looking over me.′
The girl put aside her work, and drawing her seat close to his seat by the fire, laid her arm gently on his shoulder.
′You′ll make the most of your time, Charley; won′t you?′
′Won′t I? Come! I like that. Don′t I?′
′Yes, Charley, yes. You work hard at your learning, I know. And I work a little, Charley, and plan and contrive a little (wake out of my sleep contriving sometimes), how to get together a shilling now, and a shilling then, that shall make father believe you are beginning to earn a stray living along shore.′
′You are father′s favourite, and can make him believe anything.′
′I wish I could, Charley! For if I could make him believe that learning was a good thing, and that we might lead better lives, I should be a′most content to die.′
′Don′t talk stuff about dying, Liz.′
She placed her hands in one another on his shoulder, and laying her rich brown cheek against them as she looked down at the fire, went on thoughtfully:
′Of an evening, Charley, when you are at the school, and father′s—′
′At the Six Jolly Fellowship Porters,′ the boy struck in, with a backward nod of his head towards the public-house.
′Yes. Then as I sit a-looking at the fire, I seem to see in the burning coal—like where that glow is now—′
′That′s gas, that is,′ said the boy, ′coming out of a bit of a forest that′s been under the mud that was under the water in the days of Noah′s Ark. Look here! When I take the poker—so—and give it a dig—′
′Don′t disturb it, Charley, or it′ll be all in a blaze. It′s that dull glow near it, coming and going, that I mean. When I look at it of an evening, it comes like pictures to me, Charley.′
′Show us a picture,′ said the boy. ′Tell us where to look.′
′Ah! It wants my eyes, Charley.′
′Cut away then, and tell us what your eyes make of it.′
′Why, there are you and me, Charley, when you were quite a baby that never knew a mother—′
′Don′t go saying I never knew a mother,′ interposed the boy, ′for I knew a little sister that was sister and mother both.′
The girl laughed delightedly, and here eyes filled with pleasant tears, as he put both his arms round her waist and so held her.
′There are you and me, Charley, when father was away at work and locked us out, for fear we should set ourselves afire or fall out of window, sitting on the door-sill, sitting on other door-steps, sitting on the bank of the river, wandering about to get through the time. You are rather heavy to carry, Charley, and I am often obliged to rest. Sometimes we are sleepy and fall asleep together in a corner, sometimes we are very hungry, sometimes we are a little frightened, but what is oftenest hard upon us is the cold.
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