‘Don’t trouble,’ Sidney answered.  ’They shall never want as long as I live—­never!’

‘Sidney, come a bit nearer.  Do you know anything about her?’

He shook his head.

’If ever—­if ever she comes back, don’t turn away from her—­will you?’

‘I would welcome her as I would a sister of my own.’

‘There’s such hard things in a woman’s life.  What would a’ become of me, if John hadn’t took pity on me!  The world’s a hard place; I should be glad to leave it, if it wasn’t for them as has to go on in their trouble.  I knew you’d come when I sent Amy.  Oh, I feel that easier in my mind!’

’Why didn’t you send long before?  No, it’s my fault.  Why didn’t I come?  Why didn’t I come?’

There was a footstep in the passage, a slow, uncertain step; then the door moved a little.  With blurred vision Sidney saw Hewett enter and come forward.  They grasped each other’s hands without speaking, and John, as though his strength were at an end, dropped upon the chair by the bedside.  For the last four or five nights he had sat there; if he got half an hour’s painful slumber now and then it was the utmost.  His face was like that of some prisoner, whom the long torture of a foul dungeon has brought to the point of madness.  He uttered only a few words during the half-hour that Sidney still remained in the room.  The latter, when Mrs. Hewett’s relapse into unconsciousness made it useless for him to stay, beckoned Amy to follow him out into the area and put money in her hand, begging her to get whatever was needed without troubling her father.  He would come again in the morning.

Mrs. Hewett died just before daybreak without a pang, as though death had compassion on her.  When Sidney came, about nine o’clock, he found Amy standing at the door of the milk-shop; the people who kept it had brought the children up into their room.  Hewett still sat by the bed; seeing Kirkwood, he pointed to the hidden face.

‘How am I to bury her?’ he whispered hoarsely.  ’Haven’t you heard about it?  They’ve stole the club-money; they’ve robbed me of it; I haven’t as much as’ll pay for her coffin.’

Sidney fancied at first that the man’s mind was wandering, but Hewett took out of his pocket a scrap of newspaper in which the matter was briefly reported.

’See, it’s there.  I’ve known since last Sunday, and I had to keep it from her.  No need to be afraid of speakin’ now.  They’ve robbed me, and I haven’t as much as’ll pay for her coffin.  It’s a nice blasted world, this is, where they won’t let you live, and then make you pay if you don’t want to be buried like a dog!  She’s had nothing but pain and poverty all her life, and now they’ll pitch her out of the way in a parish box.  Do you remember what hopes I used to have when we were first married?  See the end of ’em—­look at this underground hole—­look at this bed as she lays on!  Is it my fault?  By God, I wonder I haven’t killed myself before this!  I’ve been drove mad, I tell you—­mad!  It’s well if I don’t do murder yet; every man as I see go by with a good coat on his back and a face fat with good feeding, it’s all I can do to keep from catchin’ his throat an tearin’ the life out of him!’