He washed and dressed those two small brethren--the eldest of whom was barely three--as deftly and gently as if he had been trained to the work.

And he manipulated their frugal meals, and stowed them away in his bed, with all the art of a practised nurse.

How could he desert them now?
How indeed?
That very night, as he sat writing, with the little pair sleeping fitfully on the bed, a head was put in at the door, and a voice said in a whisper, "Poor Mrs Pratt's gone, John." "What," he said, "is she dead ?" "Yes--all of a sudden--the 'art done it--I know'd she was weak there.
Poor dear--and her husband such a bad 'un too, and they do say she was be'ind with her rent." So the woman chattered on, and when at last she went, Jeffreys glanced at his two unconscious charges and went on writing.

No, he could not leave Storr Alley.
In the morning, as usual, he performed their little toilets, and announced to the elder that his mother was gone away, and they might stay upstairs.

Whereat the little orphan was merry, and executed a caper on the bare floor.
A fresh dilemma faced the newly made father.