“Good-night, Deb,” said one, a mulatto, steadying herself against the gas-post.  She needed the post to steady her.  So did more than one of them.

“Dah’s a ball to Miss Potts’ to-night.  Ye’d best come.”

“Inteet, Deb, if hur ’ll come, hur ’ll hef fun,” said a shrill Welsh voice in the crowd.

Two or three dirty hands were thrust out to catch the gown of the woman, who was groping for the latch of the door.

“No.”

“No?  Where’s Kit Small, then?”

“Begorra! on the spools.  Alleys behint, though we helped her, we dud.  An wid ye!  Let Deb alone!  It’s ondacent frettin’ a quite body.  Be the powers, an’ we’ll have a night of it! there’ll be lashin’s o’ drink,—­the Vargent be blessed and praised for ’t!”

They went on, the mulatto inclining for a moment to show fight, and drag the woman Wolfe off with them; but, being pacified, she staggered away.

Deborah groped her way into the cellar, and, after considerable stumbling, kindled a match, and lighted a tallow dip, that sent a yellow glimmer over the room.  It was low, damp,—­the earthen floor covered with a green, slimy moss,—­a fetid air smothering the breath.  Old Wolfe lay asleep on a heap of straw, wrapped in a torn horse-blanket.  He was a pale, meek little man, with a white face and red rabbit-eyes.  The woman Deborah was like him; only her face was even more ghastly, her lips bluer, her eyes more watery.  She wore a faded cotton gown and a slouching bonnet.  When she walked, one could see that she was deformed, almost a hunchback.  She trod softly, so as not to waken him, and went through into the room beyond.  There she found by the half-extinguished fire an iron saucepan filled with cold boiled potatoes, which she put upon a broken chair with a pint-cup of ale.  Placing the old candlestick beside this dainty repast, she untied her bonnet, which hung limp and wet over her face, and prepared to eat her supper.  It was the first food that had touched her lips since morning.  There was enough of it, however:  there is not always.  She was hungry,—­one could see that easily enough,—­and not drunk, as most of her companions would have been found at this hour.  She did not drink, this woman,—­her face told that, too,—­nothing stronger than ale.  Perhaps the weak, flaccid wretch had some stimulant in her pale life to keep her up,—­some love or hope, it might be, or urgent need.  When that stimulant was gone, she would take to whiskey.  Man cannot live by work alone.  While she was skinning the potatoes, and munching them, a noise behind her made her stop.

“Janey!” she called, lifting the candle and peering into the darkness.  “Janey, are you there?”

A heap of ragged coats was heaved up, and the face of a young girl emerged, staring sleepily at the woman.

“Deborah,” she said, at last, “I’m here the night.”

“Yes, child.  Hur’s welcome,” she said, quietly eating on.