“Who has locked you up here alone?” we naturally asked.

“Charley,” said the boy.

“Is Charley your brother?”

“No, she’s my sister, Charlotte.  Father called her Charley.”

“Are there any more of you besides Charley?”

“Me,” said the boy, “and Emma,” patting the child he was nursing, “and Charley.”

“Where is Charley now?”

“Out a-washing,” said the boy, beginning to walk up and down again, and even as he spoke there came into the room a very little girl, childish in figure, but shrewd and older looking in the face—­pretty faced, too—­wearing a womanly sort of a bonnet, much too large for her, and drying her bare arms on a womanly sort of apron.  Her fingers were white and wrinkled with washing, and the soap-suds were yet smoking, which she wiped off her arms.  But for this, she might have been a child, playing at washing, and imitating a poor working woman with a quick observation of the truth.

She had come running from some place in the neighborhood.  Consequently, though she was very light, she was out of breath, and could not speak at first, as she stood panting and wiping her arms.  “O, here’s Charley!” said the boy.

The child he was nursing stretched forward its arms and cried out to be taken by Charley.  The little girl took it, in a womanly sort of manner belonging to the apron and the bonnet, and stood looking at us over the burden that clung to her most affectionately.

“Is it possible,” whispered my guardian, as he put a chair for the little creature, and got her to sit down with her load, the boy holding to her apron, “that this child works for the rest?

“Charley, Charley!” he questioned.  “How old are you?”

“Over thirteen, sir,” replied the child.

“O, what a great age!” said my guardian.  “And do you live here alone with these babies, Charley?”

“Yes, sir,” returned the child, looking up into his face with perfect confidence, “since father died.”

“And how do you live, Charley,” said my guardian, “how do you live?”

“Since father died, sir, I’ve gone out to work.  I’m out washing to-day.”

“God help you, Charley!” said my guardian.  “You’re not tall enough to reach the tub!”

“In pattens I am, sir,” she said quickly.  “I’ve got a high pair as belonged to mother.  Mother died just after Emma was born,” said the child, glancing at the face upon her bosom.  “Then father said I was to be as good a mother to her as I could.  And so I tried.  And so I worked at home, and did cleaning, and nursing, and washing, for a long time before I began to go out.  And that’s how I know how, don’t you see, sir?”

“And do you often go out?”

“As often as I can, sir,” said Charley, opening her eyes and smiling, “because of earning sixpences and shillings!”

“And do you always lock the babies up when you go out?”