Just at that moment heavy footsteps were heard approaching and conversation ceased.

“Here’s your father coming,” said Mrs. Lang in a lowered tone to Jessie.  Then, as she stooped down to the oven to get out the dish of bacon for him, “We won’t have ours now,” she whispered to Jessie; “you and me’ll have ours after they’re gone, when there’s a little peace and quietness,” and Jessie, in spite of her hunger, which was making her feel quite sick and faint, felt glad.

“While you are waiting will you run up and talk to Charlie?” she asked kindly, for she saw Jessie’s dread of her father, which was only too plainly written on her face.

“Who is Charlie?” Jessie asked, “and where is he?  I’d like to go.”

“You go up-stairs, and on the second landing from this you’ll see four doors, one of the back ones is our bedroom, and the next one is Charlie’s.  He is my son, you know, he’s just about your age, but he’s—­he’s very delicate.”  Mrs. Lang hesitated a little, and turned her face away from Jessie for a moment.  “He’s got to lie in bed all the time, it is very dull for him, and he’ll be glad to see you, he knows you are come.”

The door was banged open and banged shut again.  “What’s the use of my taking the trouble to get up, in such weather as this, and shave myself, and—­and put myself out like this,” grumbled the master of the house, entering half dressed, half asleep, and more than half angry.  “No horses can run—­”

Jessie crept to the door and escaped as swiftly and silently as possible.  At the sight of her father all her old terror of him rushed over her again, and she felt she could not face him.

Up the stairs she hurried as fast as the darkness and her own ignorance of the house would let her, then stopped suddenly.  She did not know how many landings she had passed, or where to go.  She tried to remember, but it was no good.  “I’ll go on a little further, though,” she thought, “it will be better than going back again,” and she groped her way carefully up another little flight of stairs.  Round the bend of them a light gleamed from a partly open door.  She went on further and looked in.  The room was empty and very untidy, but there was a light burning in it.  It was the one her father had just left.  In the dimness she made out a smaller door beside it.  Was this Charlie’s?  She listened for a moment, then a small thin voice called out, “Is anybody there?  Who is it?  Mother, is that you?”

Jessie stepped over to the door and knocked.  “It is me—­Jessie,” she called back.  “Your mother sent me up to see you.  May I come in?”

“Yes, please.”

Jessie turned the handle very carefully.  She felt painfully shy now that she was actually here, but it was too late to turn back, so she sidled in around the door, wondering very much what she should see, and what she should say.

What she saw was an untidy room with a small bed in it, and a large window just opposite the bed.  There were a few fairly good pieces of furniture in it as well, but the whole place looked neglected, untidy and comfortless.  Jessie did not notice this so much just at first, though, for the little figure in the bed claimed most of her attention.