She almost flew up the dark flight of stairs to the attic in Royal Street.

Little Sarah was sobbing querulously.

Esther, conscious of being an angel of deliverance, tried to take the last two steps at once, tripped and tumbled ignominiously against the garret-door, which flew back and let her fall into the room with a crash.

The pitcher shivered into fragments under her aching little bosom, the odorous soup spread itself in an irregular pool over the boards, and flowed under the two beds and dripped down the crevices into the room beneath.

Esther burst into tears; her frock was wet and greased, her hands were cut and bleeding.