she was, a very beautiful laundress—­and she used to do for a gentleman who was a dissentin’ minister—­a dissentin’ minister he was—­and most particular about his linen, and lived in the big square just by the church at the corner, number five; and I’ve knowed my poor mother fret herself almost to death, she would, if one of them little blisters ever come up on the gentleman’s shirt-fronts.  And I used to help my poor mother, I did, by carryin’ the gentleman’s linen to number five in the big square, and that was the fust job I ever did for my poor mother, and proud she was, and proud I was, too, that I could be sich a help to her.

“We was poorer than ’most anybody in Blackfriars, where we lived, and a terribly poor neighbourhood it were—­terribly poor; and so one of my sisters got married, she did, and a wonderfully big family she had, but most of ’em died sharp, so that was all right, excep’ that the berryin’ cost a tidy bit of money, it did.  Then my other sister went out to service in Brixton.  I useter go there one day a week—­Toosday it was—­to clean the silver and the soup tureens, and they give me a shillin’, they did, I useter help sister in the kitchen—­not a cook I wasn’t, you must understand, but I useter help with the vegetables and the dishin’-up, and they give me a shillin’.  It was a very nice house; a nice house, and no mistake about it.  The lady had married a gardener—­a gentleman’s gardener, he was; and there was a carpet all over the dining-room floor—­a nice carpet, a Brussels carpet, an ol’ Brussels carpet; and she kep’ a parrot—­oh, a nasty, spiteful parrot, it was—­I useter hate it, I did, the nasty, squawlin’ beast; and it was more to her than any baby; and I useter clean the silver and the soup tureens, and do the vegetables and dish-up, Toosdays it was; and they give me a shillin’.

“All by meself I useter go, there and back, and one night”—­she lifts her claws and gurgles at the memory, with a slow smile creepin’ gradually through all the wrinkles on her face—­“Oh, didn’t I give my poor mother a fright, and no mistake about it!  It was one of them nasty, stinkin’ cold, freezin’ nights; the streets like ice, they was, and the ’bus horses couldn’t get along nohow, for all they was roughed; and it was past eleven o’clock, it was—­yes, past eleven o’clock, it was—­before ever I got home; and there was my poor mother standing at the door of the alms-house where we was livin’ in Blackfriars—­my poor mother and me—­and cryin’ and wringin’ her hands and makin’ a to-do, she was, thinking as how she had lost me altogether.

* * * * *

“Then my poor mother died,” says Miss Stipp sadly, drawing her hand across the end of her nose.  “I forgit the year, but it was the fust year that ever there come a August Bank Holiday.  And she died on that day, my poor mother did.  Yuss, she died on that day.  She didn’t seem like dyin’ at all that there mornin,’ she didn’t.  She eat a beautiful dinner,