“If Mrs. Marion”—­

Edith checked herself, and did not say what was in her mind.  Mrs. Darlington was silent, sighed again heavily, and then said—­

“Yes; if it wasn’t for the expense of keeping Mrs. Marion.  And she has no claim upon us.”

“None but the claim of humanity,” said Edith.

“If we were able to pay that claim,” remarked Mrs. Darlington.

“True.”

“But we are not.  Such being the case, are we justified in any longer offering her a home?”

“Where will she go?  What will she do?” said Edith.

“Where will we go?  What will we do, unless there is a change in our favour?” asked Mrs. Darlington.

“Alas, I cannot tell!  When we are weak, small things are felt as a burden.  The expense of keeping Mrs. Marion and her two children is not very great.  Still, it is an expense that we are unable to meet.  But how can we tell her to go?”

“I cannot take my children’s bread and distribute it to others,” replied Mrs. Darlington, with much feeling.  My first duty is to them.”

“Poor woman!  My heart aches for her,” said Edith.  “She looks so pale and heart-broken, feels so keenly her state of dependence, and tries so in every possible way to make the pressure of her presence in our family as light as possible, that the very thought of turning her from our door seems to involve cruelty.”

“All that, Edith, I feel most sensibly.  Ah me! into what a strait are we driven!”

“How many times have I wished that we had never commenced this business!” said Edith.  “It has brought us nothing but trouble from the beginning; and, unless my fears are idle, some worse troubles are yet before us.”

“Of what kind?”

“Henry did not come home until after two o’clock this morning.”

“What!” exclaimed the mother in painful surprise.

“I sat up for him.  Knowing that he had gone out with Mr. Barling, and, finding that he had not returned by eleven o’clock, I could not go to bed.  I said nothing to Miriam, but sat up alone.  It was nearly half past two when he came home in company with Barling.  Both, I am sorry to say, were so much intoxicated, that they could scarcely make their way up stairs.”

“Oh, Edith!” exclaimed the stricken mother, hiding her face in her hands, and weeping aloud.

Miriam entered the room at this moment, and, seeing her mother in tears, and Edith looking the very image of distress, begged to know the cause of their trouble.  Little was said to her then; but Edith, when she was alone with her soon after, fully explained the desperate condition of their affairs.  Hitherto they had, out of regard for Miriam, concealed from her the nature of the difficulties that were closing around them.

“I dreamed not of this,” said Miriam, in a voice of anguish.  “My poor mother!  What pain she must suffer!  No wonder that her countenance is so often sad.  But, Edith, cannot we do something?”