‘I ain’t an unreasonable woman, Mr. Boddy,’ she said, ’and nobody could never say I was.  But then I’ve a ’ome to keep up, as you know.  Isn’t it time as you thought things over a bit?  I dessay there’s them as ’ll see you don’t want, if only you’ll speak a word.  I don’t want to be disagreeable to a old lodger, but then reason is reason, ain’t it?’

That Saturday night hunger drove him out.  He stumped painfully into the busy region on the south side of London Bridge, and there, at midnight, he succeeded in begging a handful of fried potatoes from a fish-shop that was just closing.  It was all he could do, after a dozen vain efforts to earn a copper.

But, when he got home in the early morning, a strange thing had happened.  On his table lay half a loaf of bread, a piece of butter, and some tea twisted up in paper.  How came these things here?  He was in anguish lest Lydia had left them, lest Lydia had somehow discovered his condition and had come in his absence.

But it was not so.  Lydia came, as usual, on Sunday afternoon, and clearly knew nothing of that gift.  He had eaten, and was able once more to talk so cheerfully—­in his great relief—­that the girl went away happy in the thought that he had got over a turn of ill-health.  They had talked, as always, of Thyrza.  With Thyrza it was well, outwardly at all events; Lydia had just seen her, and could report that she seemed even happy.  Mr. Boddy rejoiced at this.  Might not he see the little one some day?  Yes, surely he should; Lydia would try for that.

Who had left him the food, then?  No one entered his room to do anything for him, save at intervals of a fortnight, when Mrs. Bower sent up a charwoman; otherwise he had always waited upon himself.  Two days went by, then the offering was renewed, just in the same way, and this time with the addition of some sugar.  The giver could be but one person.  Mary Bower knew of his need, and was doing what she could for him.  He knew it in meeting her on the stairs the morning after; she said a kind ‘Good-day,’ and reddened, and went by with her head bent.

But it was bitter to receive such help.  He could not refuse it, for otherwise he must have lain down in helplessness, and he trusted yet that there would come a turn in things.  The winter cold began.  Mrs. Bower had not refused coals; he always burned so little that fuel was allowed to be covered by the rent.  But now he scarcely ventured to keep his fire alight long enough to boil his kettle; he still had a little supply for burning, and felt that he durst not go down to the cellar for more, when that was done.

Then came the day when his landlady told him with decisive brevity that she could trust him no longer.  He must not be a foolish old man, but must ask help from those whose duty it was to give it him.

That was in the afternoon.  Mrs. Bower had come up to his room and had asked for the rent.  He waited until it was dark, then stole out of the house, carrying his violin.