Charlie was really of the same age as herself, but he was so thin and worn and helpless, he looked much younger, and his pale little face wore something of the appealing look of a baby.

A great, great pity for him swelled up in Jessie’s heart, and drove out most of her shyness.  “I am so sorry you are ill,” she said sympathetically.  “Are you always like it?”

“Yes,” said Charlie, looking at her with very shy, but very great interest.  “I have been for a long time.  I think it is seven years now.  I fell backwards off a ’bus and hurt my back.”

“Oh, what a dreadful thing!” exclaimed Jessie.  “Couldn’t a doctor cure you?”

“No.  I was in hospital for nearly a year, but mother wanted me; she didn’t like my being there, and when they said they couldn’t make me well, mother said she would have me come home with her.  She wanted me.”

“Were you glad?”

“Yes.  I was very glad.  I wanted mother.”

A short pause following, Jessie thought she had better introduce herself.  “I am Jessie Lang,” she said; “and—­and I am come to live here, father says I must.  I s’pose for always—­to help your mother with the lodgers.”

“Are you?  How nice!  I am so glad,” cried Charlie; “then you’ll be able to come and talk to me sometimes.”

“I am not glad,” said Jessie, with a quaver in her voice; “but I should like to come and talk to you as often as I can.”  Then presently she added, in a conflicting tone, “I don’t know what to call your mother.  I don’t like to say ‘Mrs. Lang,’ it seems so—­ so silly and—­stuck-up, and I don’t like to call her ‘mother,’ because, you see, she isn’t mine at all, really.”

“I should,” said Charlie decidedly.  “I have to call your father ‘father,’ though I hate to.  I don’t like him.  I hate him—­he’s—­ he’s unkind to mother!” and the pale face flushed and the sad eyes filled with the strength of other feeling.

“Oh!” exclaimed Jessie, “you ought not to speak like that, I am sure.  Why do you ha—­why don’t you like him?”

“’Cause he’s so unkind to mother.  He is unkind to me, too, but I don’t mind that, I don’t see him often; but he’s always going on at mother, he makes her miserable, and he—­he hits her!” staring at Jessie with wide, horrified eyes.  “We were so happy and comfortable before he came, but now everything seems all wrong, and mother is always unhappy, and—­and I—­I can’t bear it.”

 “Don’t cry,” said Jessie soothingly.  “Did you live here always?”

“Yes, and we had nice lodgers, and a nice house, and we had money enough for what we wanted, but father costs such a lot, and takes nearly all the money mother gets, and he won’t give her any of it.  He won’t work himself, either.  All the nice lodgers left because he made such rows in the house, and was always quarrelling; there’s only one of them left, that’s Miss Patch.  She has the attic right at the top of the house.  She went up there because it is quieter.”