It was a snowy midnight; by the light of the street lamp he who made this strange request looked ragged and distraught. “They lives in Gold Street, 22; go an’ see ’em, gentleman. Mrs. James White--my poor mother starvin’.” In England no one starves. “Go an’ see ’em, gentleman; it’s the book o’ truth I’m tellin’ you. They’re old; they got no food, they got nothin’.” “Very well, I will.” He thrust out his face to see whether he might trust his ears, then without warning turned and ran on down the road. His shape vanished into darkness, whence it came.... Gold Street with its small grey houses whose doors are always open, and its garbage-littered gutters, where children are at play. “Mr. and Mrs. James White?” “First floor back. Mr. White--wanted!” My dog sniffed at the passage wall, that smelled unlike the walls belonging to him, and presently an old man came. He looked at us distrustfully, and we looked back distrustfully at him. “Mr. James White?” “Yes.” “Last night some one calling himself your son asked me to come up and see you.” “Come up, sir.” The room was unpapered, and not more than ten feet square; it contained a double bed, over whose dirty mattress was stretched a black-brown rag; a fireplace and no fire; a saucepan, but nothing in it; two cups, a tin or two, no carpet, a knife and spoon, a basin, some photographs, and rags of clothing; all blackish and discoloured. On a wooden chair before the hearth was sitting an old woman whose brown-skinned face was crowsfooted all over. Her hair was white, and she had little bright grey eyes and a wart on one nostril. A dirty shawl was pinned across her chest; this, with an old skirt and vest, seemed all her clothing. The third finger of her left hand was encircled by a broad gold ring. There were two chairs, and the old man placed the other one for me, having rubbed it with his sleeve. My dog lay with his chin pressed to the ground, for the sights and scents of poverty displeased him. “I’m afraid you’re down on your luck.” “Yes, sir, we are down.” Seated on the border of the bed, he was seen to be a man with features coloured greyish-dun by lack of food; his weak hair and fringe of beard were touched with grey; a dumb, long-suffering man from whom discouragement and want had planed away expression. “How have you got into this state?” “The winter an’ my not gettin’ work.” A whisper came from the old lady by the hearth: “Father can work, sir; oh! ’e can work!” “Yes, I can work; I’m good for a day’s work at any time.” “I’m afraid you don’t look it!” His hand was shaking violently, and he tried to stop its movement. “It’s a bit chilly; I feels well enough in meself.” More confidential came the old lady’s whisper: “Father’s very good ’ealth, sir; oh! ’e can work. It’s not ’avin’ any breakfast that makes ’im go like that this weather.” “But how old are you?” “Father’s seventy-one, sir, and I’m the same. Born within two months of each other--wasn’t we, Father?”