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“And now!” thought Jack, seating himself on his little bed and glancing at that of his mother, which stood empty in the opposite corner–“now!–“

But Jack could think no more. A tremendous agony rent his breast, and a sharp cry escaped from him as he flung himself on his bed and burst into a passion of tears.

Child-like, he sobbed himself to sleep, and did not awake till the sun was high next morning. It was some time before he could recall what had occurred. When he did so he began to weep afresh. Leaping up, he was about to rush out of the house and make for the hospital, when he was checked at the door by the landlord–a hard, grinding, heartless man, who grew rich in oppressing the poor.

“You seem to be in a hurry, youngster,” he said, dragging the boy back by the collar, and looking hurriedly round the room. “I’ve come for the rent. Where’s your mother?”

In a sobbing voice Jack told him about the accident.

“Well, I don’t really believe you,” said the man, with an angry frown; “but I’ll soon find out if you’re telling lies. I’ll go to the hospital and inquire for myself. D’ee know anything about your mother’s affairs?”

“No, sir,” said Jack, meekly, for he began to entertain a vague terror of the man.

“No; I thought not. Well, I’ll enlighten you. Your mother owes me three weeks’ rent of this here room, and has got nothing to pay it with, as far as I knows, except these sticks o’ furniture. Now, if your mother is really in hospital, I’ll come back here and bundle you out, an’ sell the furniture to pay my rent. I ain’t a-goin’ to be done out o’ my money because your mother chooses to git run’d over.”

The landlord did not wait for a reply, but went out and slammed the door.

Jack followed him in silent horror. He watched him while he inquired at the gate of the hospital, and, after he had gone, went up timidly, rang the bell, and asked for his mother.

“Mrs Matterby?” repeated the porter. “Come in; I’ll make inquiry.”

The report which he brought back fell like the blow of a sledge-hammer on the poor boy’s heart. His mother, they told him, was dead. She had died suddenly in the night.

There are times of affliction, when the human soul fails to find relief in tears or cries. Poor Jack Matterby stood for some time motionless, as if paralysed, with glaring eyes and a face not unlike to that of death. They sought to rouse him, but he could not speak. Suddenly, observing the front door open, he darted out into the street, and ran straight home, where he flung himself on his mother’s bed, and burst into an uncontrollable flood of tears. By degrees the passion subsided, leaving only a stunned feeling behind, under the influence of which he lay perfectly still.

The first thing that roused him was the sound of a heavy foot on the stair. The memory of the landlord flashed into his mind and filled him with indescribable dread–dread caused partly by the man’s savage aspect and nature, but much more by the brutal way in which he had spoken about his mother. The only way in which to avoid a meeting was to rush past the man on the stair. Fear and loathing made the poor boy forget, for the moment, his crushing sorrow. He leaped up, opened the door, and, dashing downstairs, almost overturned the man who was coming up. Once in the street, he ran straight on without thought, until he felt that he was safe from pursuit. Then he stopped, and sat down on a door-step–to think what he should do; for, having been told that the furniture of his old home was to be sold, and himself turned out, he felt that returning there would be useless, and would only expose him to the risk of meeting the awful landlord. While he was yet buried in thought, one of those sprightly creatures of the great city, known as street arabs, accosted him in a grave and friendly tone.