They could not have been more
than two and three. They were sobbing a little--not much. The tiny
creatures stood there awfully awake in sleeping London, while even
their own playmates were far off in the fairyland of dreams.
'This is the kind of thing,' I said, 'that makes me doubt whether
there be a God in heaven.'
'That is only because he is down here,' answered Falconer, 'taking
such good care of us all that you can't see him. There is not a
gin-palace, or yet lower hell in London, in which a man or woman can
be out of God. The whole being love, there is nothing for you to set
it against and judge it by. So you are driven to fancies.'
The house was closed, but there was light above the door. We went
up to the children, and spoke to them, but all we could make out was
that mammie was in there. One of them could not speak at all.
Falconer knocked at the door. A good-natured-looking Irishwoman
opened it a little way and peeped out.
'Here are two children crying at your door, ma'am,' said Falconer.
'Och, the darlin's! they want their mother.'
'Do you know her, then?'
'True for you, and I do. She's a mighty dacent woman in her way
when the drink's out uv her, and very kind to the childher; but
oncet she smells the dhrop o' gin, her head's gone intirely. The
purty craytures have waked up, an' she not come home, and they've
run out to look after her.'
Falconer stood a moment as if thinking what would be best.
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