ain, 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.

Jessie shut her eyes and tried to go to sleep, but her nerves were
all unstrung, brain and ears were all on the alert, and there seemed
to be curious, unaccountable sounds on all sides of her. She had not
been alone more than a minute or two before there were strange
scraping noises in the kitchen not far from her. "Mice!" thought
Jessie, "or beetles."

She was a fairly brave child, but she had a perfect horror of black
beetles, and her heart sank at the thought of them. She drew the
shawl over her head as well as she could