“No doubt it will be better for the poor fellow himself before spring,” said the doctor as they made their way down the dirty stairways.  “Now I’ll show you one of my favorites.”

They turned into a broader street, one of the busy avenues, and passing under an archway between two tall buildings, entered a court of back buildings.  In the third story back lived Aunt Margaret.  The room was scarcely as big as a ship’s cabin, and its one window gave little light, for it opened upon a narrow well of high brick walls.  In the only chair Aunt Margaret was seated close to the window.  In front of her was a small work-table, with a kerosene lamp on it, but the side of the room towards which she looked was quite occupied by a narrow couch —­ridiculously narrow, for Aunt Margaret was very stout.  There was a thin chest of drawers on the other side, and the small coal stove that stood in the centre so nearly filled the remaining space that the two visitors were one too many.

“Oh, come in, come in,” said the old lady, cheerfully, when the door opened.  “I’m glad to see you.”

“And how goes it?” asked the doctor.

“First rate.  I’m coming on, doctor.  Work’s been pretty slack for two weeks now, but yesterday I got work for two days.  I guess it will be better now.”

The work was finishing pantaloons.  It used to be a good business before there was so much cutting in.

“I used to get fifteen cents a pair, then ten; now they don’t pay but five.  Yes, the shop furnishes the thread.”

“And how many pairs can you finish in a day?” asked Edith.

“Three—­three pairs, to do ’em nice—­and they are very particular—­if I work from six in the morning till twelve at night.  I could do more, but my sight ain’t what it used to be, and I’ve broken my specs.”

“So you earn fifteen cents a day?”

“When I’ve the luck to get work, my lady.  Sometimes there isn’t any.  And things cost so much.  The rent is the worst.”

It appeared that the rent was two dollars and a half a month.  That must be paid, at any rate.  Edith made a little calculation that on a flush average of ninety cents a week earned, and allowing so many cents for coal and so many cents for oil, the margin for bread and tea must be small for the month.  She usually bought three cents’ worth of tea at a time.

“It is kinder close,” said the old lady, with a smile.  “The worst is, my feet hurt me so I can’t stir out.  But the neighbors is real kind.  The little boy next room goes over to the shop and fetches my pantaloons and takes ’em back.  I can get along if it don’t come slack again.”

Sitting all day by that dim window, half the night stitching by a kerosene lamp; lying for six hours on that narrow couch!  How to account for this old soul’s Christian resignation and cheerfulness!  “For,” said the doctor, “she has seen better days; she has moved in high society; her husband, who died twenty years ago, was a policeman.  What the old lady is doing is fighting for her independence.  She has only one fear—­the almshouse.”