Later in the evening, as Austin was going home, he passed a piece of clear ground, to be let for building purposes, at the end of the square. There, in its darkest corner, far back from the road, paced a man as if in some mental agony, his hat carried in his hands, and his head bared to the winds. Austin peered through the night with his quick sight, and recognised Mr. Hunter. CHAPTER VII. MR. SHUCK AT HOME. Daffodil's Delight was in a state of commotion. It has often been remarked that there exists more real sympathy between the working classes, one for another, than amongst those of a higher grade; and experience generally seems to bear it out. From one end of Daffodil's Delight to the other, there ran just now a deep feeling of sorrow, of pity, of commiseration. Men made inquiries of each other as they passed in the street; women congregated at their doors to talk, concern on their faces, a question on their lips--'How is she? What does the doctor say?' Yes; the excitement had its rise in one cause alone--the increased illness of Mrs. Baxendale. The physician had pronounced his opinion (little need to speak it, though, for the fact was only too apparent to all who used their eyes), and the news had gone forth to Daffodil's Delight--Mrs. Baxendale was past recovery; was, in fact, dying! The concern, universal as it was, showed itself in various ways. Visits and neighbourly calls were so incessant, that the Shucks openly rebelled at the 'trampling up and down through their living-room,' by which route the Baxendale apartments could alone be gained. The neighbours came to help; to nurse; to shake up the bed and pillows; to prepare condiments over the fire; to condole; and, above all, to gossip: with tears in their eyes and lamentation in their tones, and ominous shakes of the head, and uplifted hands; but still, to gossip: _that_ lies in human female nature. They brought offerings of savoury delicacies; or things that, in their ideas, stood for delicacies--dainties likely to tempt the sick. Mrs. Cheek made a pint jug of what she called 'buttered beer,' a miscellaneous compound of scalding-hot porter, gin, eggs, sugar, and spice. Mrs. Baxendale sipped a little; but it did not agree with her fevered palate, and she declined it for the future, with 'thanks, all the same,' and Mrs. Cheek and a crony or two disposed of it themselves with great satisfaction. All this served to prove two things--that good feeling ran high in Daffodil's Delight, and that means did not run low.