Tarrant himself suggested the neighbourhood of Harrow for Nancy’s abode.  It united the conditions of being remote from Camberwell, of lying beyond the great smoke-area, and of permitting him, poor as he was, to visit his wife whenever he thought fit.

In December, Nancy had lived thus for all but a twelvemonth, seeing the while none of her old acquaintances, and with very little news from her old world.  What she heard came through Horace, who, after learning with astonishment the secret in his sister’s life, came by degrees to something like the old terms of affection with her, and went over to Harrow pretty frequently.  Of his engagement to Winifred Chittle he at once informed Nancy, who tried to be glad of it, but could have little faith in anything traceable to the influence of Mrs. Damerel.  With that lady the Harrow household had no direct communication; Tarrant had written to her on the night of crisis, civilly requesting her to keep aloof, as her advice and assistance were m nowise needed.  She answered him with good temper, and wrote kindly to Nancy; after that, silence on both sides.

It wanted a few days to Christmas; with nightfall had come a roaring wind and sleety rain; the house-door was locked; within, lamps and fires burned cheerily.  At half-past six, Nancy—­she occupied the two front rooms—­sat in her parlour, resting after the exertion of putting her son to bed.  To judge from her countenance, she was well and happy.  The furniture about her aimed at nothing but homely comfort; the pictures and books, being beyond dispute her own, had come from Grove Lane.

Save when Tarrant was here, Nancy and Mary of course lived like friends who share a house, eating together and generally sitting together.  During an hour or two each day the younger woman desired solitude, for a reason understood by her companion, who then looked after the baby.  This present evening Nancy had proposed to spend alone; but, after sitting idly for a few minutes, she opened the door and called Mary—­just then occupied in teaching a young servant how to iron.

‘I shall not write, after all,’ she said, when her friend came.  ’I’m too tired.  Bring your sewing, or your book, here.’

Mary was never talkative; Nancy kept a longer silence than usual.

‘How,’ she exclaimed at length, ’do poor women with a lot of children manage?  It really is a mystery to me.  Here am I with one baby, and with the constant help of two people; yet he tires me out.  Not a troublesome baby, either; healthy and good-tempered.  Yet the thought and anxiety and downright hard labour for a good twelve hours out of the twenty-four!  I feel that a second child would be too much for me.’

She laughed, but looked seriously for the reply.

‘Poor mothers,’ said Mary, ’can’t give the same care to their children that you give to baby.  The little ones grow up, or they don’t grow up—­that’s what it comes to.’