“You’d better give the kid something to eat, and pack her off to bed as soon as you can,” he said.  “She’s pretty well fagged out, and so am I,” he added.

Jessie looked round to see to whom he was speaking, and saw standing in the doorway a little thin woman, with a sharp, cross face, and dull, tired eyes, eyes which looked as though they never brightened, or lost their look of weary hopelessness.  This was her stepmother.  She gave no sign of welcome, no word of comfort to the child, yet, somehow, Jessie’s heart went out to her a little.  It might have been only that in her terror of her father, she was ready to cling to any one who might stand between her and him.

“There’s bread and butter—­”

“Bread and butter!” roared her husband, “is that all?  Do you mean to say you haven’t got anything hot and tasty for me after all I’ve been through to get this brat here, for nothing in the world but to help you to do nothing all day long—­”

“There’s plenty for you,” she retorted coldly.  “I was speaking of the child.  I knew you wouldn’t want to share yours with her,” and Harry Lang, who had stepped threateningly towards her, drew back again, looking rather foolish and very cross.  “Where is it?” he snapped.

“In the oven,” and she took out a big covered basin and put before him.

Whatever the contents might have been, they smelt very savoury and seemed to please him, but he never offered a mouthful of it to his famishing little daughter, as she stood by, looking at him.  A thick slice of bad bread with some butter spread thinly on it was Jessie’s fare, and she wished the butter had been omitted altogether, so horrid did it smell and taste.

As soon as he had finished the last mouthful of his supper Harry Lang got up, and without a word to either of them, slouched out of the kitchen and up-stairs to bed.  Mrs. Lang began at once to clear a very large old sofa of its untidiness.

“You’ll have to sleep here,” she said; “the house is so full there isn’t room for you anywhere else.  Make haste and get your things off.  I want to get to bed myself.  I’ve got to be up at five, and it’s past one now.”

Jessie looked with dismay at the collection of dirty-looking shawls and coats her stepmother was piling on the sofa as “bedclothes,” and if she had not been so dead tired, she could never have brought herself to lie down under them.  Visions of her own sweet little room and spotless bed rose before her, and overcame her control.

“Is this your bag?”

“Yes,” said Jessie tearfully, a sob rising in her throat.

The woman looked at her with dull interest.  “You’d better keep your feelings to yourself,” she said; “there’s no time for any here.  Try to go to sleep, and don’t think about anything,” she added, not unkindly.  “You are overtired to-night, you’ll feel better to-morrow.”  She helped Jessie into her rough bed, and tucked the shawl about her, but she did not kiss her.  “Now make haste and go to sleep,” she said, “for I shall be down very early, and then you’ll have to get up,” and she walked away, taking the lamp with her.