d-of-all-work, vanished, and Mrs.
Home made some fresh toast, which she set, brown, hot, and crisp, in the
china toast-rack. She then boiled a new-laid egg, and had hardly
finished these final preparations before the rattle of the latch-key was
heard in the hall-door, and her husband came in. He was a tall man, with
a face so colorless that hers looked almost rosy by contrast; his voice,
however, had a certain ring about it, which betokened that most rare and
happy gift to its possessor, a brave and courageous heart. The way in
which he now said, "Ah, Lottie!" and stooped down and kissed her, had a
good sound, and the wife's eyes sparkled as she sat down by the
tea-tray.

"Must you go out again to-night, Angus?" she said presently.

"Yes, my dear. Poor Mrs. Swift is really dying at last. I promised to
look in on her again."

"Ah, poor soul! has it really come? And what will those four children
do?"

"We must get them into an Orphanage; Petterick has interest. I shall
speak to him. Lottie?"

"Yes, dear."

"Beat up that fresh egg I saw you putting into the cupboard when I came
in; beat it up, and add a little milk and a teaspoonful of brandy. I
want to take it round with me to little Alice. That child has never left
her mother's side for two whole days and nights, and I believe has
scarcely tasted a morsel; I fear she will sink when all is over."

Lottie rose at once and prepared the mixture, placing it, when ready, in
a little basket, which her husband seldom went out without; but as she
put it in his hand she could not refrain from saying----

"I was keeping that egg for your breakfast, Angus; I do grudge it a
little bit."

"And to eat it when little Alice wanted it so sorely would choke me,
wife," replied the husband; and then buttoning his thin overcoat tightly
about him, he went out into the night.

CHAPTER III.

THE STORY.

The children were at last in bed, the drawing-room lodger had finished
her dinner, the welcome time of lull in the day's occupations had come,
and Mrs. Home sat by the dining-room fire. A large basket, filled with
little garments ready for mending, lay on the floor at her feet, and her
working materials were close by; but, for a wonder, the busy fingers
were idle. In vain Daisy's frock pleaded for that great rent made
yesterday, and Harold's socks showed themselves most disreputably out at
heels. Charlotte Home neither put on her thimble nor threaded her
needle; she sat g