he rags which alone separated them from the
floor, they slept the sleep of innocence and childhood.

There was a staggering step on the broken stairs at midnight, and at the
familiar sound Mattie woke, and drew her baby brother closer to her
protecting arms. The door was pushed noisily open, and some one stumbled
across the room, muttering:

"Where's them brats, I wonder?"

Mattie held her breath, and a moment later she heard a roll on the
floor, and knew that her miserable mother would lie where she had fallen
in drunken slumber until the morning. As for her father, he was seldom
able to mount the stairs; but, if he came home at all, lay at the foot,
until aroused in the morning by his landlady's shrill tones, and ordered
to seek his own room. So Mattie composed herself to sleep again; as,
under such happy circumstances, what drunkard's child might not?

She was awoke next morning by the baby's fretful wail, and, the others
beginning to stir, she sat up and pointed with a warning finger to her
still sleeping mother.

"If you wake her, you'll catch it, you know, so hold your noise now,
and I'll see if I can't get something for you to eat," she hoarsely
whispered.

With stealthy movement she crept to her mother's side, and, finding her
way to the pocket of her dress, she put her hand in and drew out a
solitary penny. Holding it up, and nodding delightedly over her prize,
she picked up the baby and disappeared down the stairs. When she
returned there was a good-sized piece of steaming bread in her hand, and
baby was already ravenously devouring his share.

"Eat it up, quick now, afore she wakes," whispered Mattie; and the
children, nothing loth, soon left not a crumb to be seen.

"We don't often get such luck as that," chuckled Mattie, thinking of
other times when the need had been as great, and not even a penny loaf
wherewith to satisfy the cravings of her hungry charge had been
forthcoming.

"Mammie's waking up," whispered Bob, shrinking back into his corner; and
the little group in silence fixed their fascinated gaze upon the woman
to whom they owed their being, as she yawned and stretched, and,
finally, with a succession of groans, turned over, and faced her
children.

Can it be the same? Are we not doing Susan Dixon a cruel injustice as we
fancy that in yonder bloated face, with its bleared eyes and framework
of dishevelled hair, we can discover a resemblance to the bright, happy
wife, who, seven years b