ikely be in dock by the end of October. Robin's birthday was the last
day in October, so her mother's reckoning had been correct. Father
would be home on Robbie's birthday; yet none the less was Meg's anxious
face to be seen day after day about the docks, seeking someone to tell
her over again the good news.

The last day but one arrived, and Meg set about the scrubbing and the
cleaning of the room heartily, as she had seen her mother do before her
father's return. Robin was set upon the highest chair, with baby on
his lap, to look on at Meg's exertions, out of the way of the wet
flooring, upon which she bestowed so much water that the occupant of
the room below burst out upon the landing, with such a storm of threats
and curses as made her light heart beat with terror. When the cleaning
of the room was done, she trotted up and down the three flights of
stairs with a small can, until she had filled, as full as it would
hold, a broken tub, which was to serve as a bath for Robin and baby.
It was late in the evening when all was accomplished, and Meg looked
around her with a glow of triumph on the clean room and the fresh faces
of the children. Very weary she felt, but she opened her Testament, in
which she had not had time to give Robin a lesson that day, and she
read a verse half aloud to herself.

'Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give
you rest.'

'I wish I could go to Jesus,' sighed little Meg, 'for I've worked very
hard all day; and He says He'd give me rest. Only I don't know where
to go.'

She laid her head down on the pillow beside the baby's slumbering face,
and almost before it rested there a deep sleep had come. Perhaps Meg's
sigh had gone to Jesus, and it was He who gave her rest; 'for so He
giveth His beloved sleep.'

CHAPTER IV

Little Meg's Treat to Her Children

Robin's birthday dawned brightly, even into the dark deep shadows of
Angel Court, and Meg was awakened by the baby's two hands beating upon
her still drowsy face, and trying to lift up her closed eyelids with
its tiny fingers. She sprang up with a light heart, for father was
coming home to-day. For the first time since her mother's death she
dragged the box from under the bed, and with eager hands unlocked the
lid. She knew that she dare not cross the court, she and the children,
arrayed in the festive finery, without her father to take care of them;
for she had seen other children stripped of