Mrs. Vincent neither moved nor spoke, even when Marcella came in.  She sat with her hands hanging over her lap in a desolation incapable of words.  She was dirty and unkempt; the room was covered with litter; the breakfast things were still on the table; and the children were evidently starving.

Marcella, seized with pity, and divining what had happened, tried to rouse and comfort her.  But she got no answer.  Then she asked for matches.  Mrs. Vincent made a mechanical effort to find them, but subsided helpless with a shake of the head.  At last Marcella found them herself, lit a tire of some sticks she discovered in a cupboard, and put on the kettle.  Then she cut a slice of bread and dripping for each of the children—­the only eatables she could find—­and after she had dressed Bertie’s leg she began to wash up the tea things and tidy the room, not knowing very well what to be at, but hoping minute by minute to get Mrs. Vincent to speak to her.

In the midst of her labours, an elderly woman cautiously opened the door and beckoned to her.

Marcella went out into the passage.

“I’m her mother, miss!  I ’eered you were ‘ere, an’ I follered yer.  Oh! such a business as we ’ad, ’er ‘usband an’ me, a gettin’ of ’er ’ome last night.  There’s a neighbour come to me, an’ she says:  ’Mrs. Lucas, there’s your daughter a drinkin’ in that public ‘ouse, an’ if I was you I’d go and fetch her out; for she’s got a lot o’ money, an’ she’s treatin’ everybody all round.’  An’ Charlie—­that’s ’er ’usband—­ee come along too, an’ between us we got holt on her.  An’ iver sence we brought her ‘ome last night, she set there in that cheer, an’ niver a word to nobody!  Not to me ’t any rate, nor the chillen.  I believe ’er ’usband an’ ’er ‘ad words this mornin’.  But she won’t tell me nothin’.  She sits there—­just heart-broke”—­the woman put up her apron to her eyes and began crying.  “She ain’t eatin’ nothink all day, an’ I dursen’t leave the ‘ouse out o’ me sight—­I lives close by, miss—­for fear of ’er doing ’erself a mischief.”

“How long has she been like this?” said Marcella, drawing the door cautiously to behind her.

“About fourteen month,” said the woman, hopelessly.  “An’ none of us knows why.  She was such a neat, pretty girl when she married ‘im—­an’ ee such a steady fellow.  An’ I’ve done my best.  I’ve talked to ‘er, an’ I’ve ’id ’er ‘at an’ her walking things, an’ taken ’er money out of ’er pockets.  An’, bless yer, she’s been all right now for seven weeks—­till last night.  Oh, deary, deary, me! whatever ‘ull become o’ them—­’er, an’ ‘im, an’ the children!”

The tears coursed down the mother’s wrinkled face.

“Leave her to me a little longer,” said Marcella, softly; “but come back to me in about half an hour, and don’t let her be alone.”

The woman nodded, and went away.

Mrs. Vincent turned quickly round as Marcella came back again, and spoke for the first time: