“This,” said the matronly presence, ushering me into a low room on the right, “is where the Travellers sit by the fire, and cook what bits of suppers they buy with their fourpences.”

“O!  Then they have no Entertainment?” said I. For the inscription over the outer door was still running in my head, and I was mentally repeating, in a kind of tune, “Lodging, entertainment, and fourpence each.”

“They have a fire provided for ’em,” returned the matron—­a mighty civil person, not, as I could make out, overpaid; “and these cooking utensils.  And this what’s painted on a board is the rules for their behaviour.  They have their fourpences when they get their tickets from the steward over the way,—­for I don’t admit ’em myself, they must get their tickets first,—­and sometimes one buys a rasher of bacon, and another a herring, and another a pound of potatoes, or what not.  Sometimes two or three of ’em will club their fourpences together, and make a supper that way.  But not much of anything is to be got for fourpence, at present, when provisions is so dear.”

“True indeed,” I remarked.  I had been looking about the room, admiring its snug fireside at the upper end, its glimpse of the street through the low mullioned window, and its beams overhead.  “It is very comfortable,” said I.

“Ill-conwenient,” observed the matronly presence.

I liked to hear her say so; for it showed a commendable anxiety to execute in no niggardly spirit the intentions of Master Richard Watts.  But the room was really so well adapted to its purpose that I protested, quite enthusiastically, against her disparagement.

“Nay, ma’am,” said I, “I am sure it is warm in winter and cool in summer.  It has a look of homely welcome and soothing rest.  It has a remarkably cosey fireside, the very blink of which, gleaming out into the street upon a winter night, is enough to warm all Rochester’s heart.  And as to the convenience of the six Poor Travellers—­”

“I don’t mean them,” returned the presence.  “I speak of its being an ill-conwenience to myself and my daughter, having no other room to sit in of a night.”

This was true enough, but there was another quaint room of corresponding dimensions on the opposite side of the entry:  so I stepped across to it, through the open doors of both rooms, and asked what this chamber was for.

“This,” returned the presence, “is the Board Room.  Where the gentlemen meet when they come here.”

Let me see.  I had counted from the street six upper windows besides these on the ground-story.  Making a perplexed calculation in my mind, I rejoined, “Then the six Poor Travellers sleep upstairs?”

My new friend shook her head.  “They sleep,” she answered, “in two little outer galleries at the back, where their beds has always been, ever since the Charity was founded.  It being so very ill-conwenient to me as things is at present, the gentlemen are going to take off a bit of the back-yard, and make a slip of a room for ’em there, to sit in before they go to bed.”