“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 her 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 doorsill, sitting on other doorsteps, 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