Mrs Yarty is one of those people who work better for others than for themselves. She is no manager. "They says," she remarked the other day, "as He do take care of the sparrows." She is a sparrow herself; she grubs up sustenance, rubs along without getting any forwarder, where others would go under altogether. Years ago she must have been good-looking. Her patchily grey hair is crisp; she still has a few pretty gestures. But trouble and too much child-bearing have done next to their worst with her. Sensible when she grasps a thing, she is often a bit mazed. She has the figure of an old woman--bent, screwed--and the toughness of a young one. Her words, spoken pell-mell in a high strained voice which oscillates between laughter and tears, seem to be tumbling down a hill one after another. Spite of all her household difficulties, she retains the usual table of ornaments just inside the front door. Last summer she reclaimed from the roadway a tiny triangular garden, about five inches long in the sides, by wedging a piece of slate between the doorstep and the wall. There she kept three stunted little wall-flowers--no room for more--which she attended to every morning after breakfast. Cats destroyed them in the end. She laughed, as it were gleefully. Her laugh is her own; derisive, open-mouthed, shapeless, hardly sane--but she has a smile--a smile at nothing in particular, at her own thoughts--which is singularly sweet and pathetic. I cannot but think that the spirit which enables her to live on without despair, to love her little garden and to smile so sweetly, is better worth than much material comfort. Hers, after all, is a life that has its fragrance. 12 [Sidenote: _TONY AS NURSEMAID_] Mrs Widger went off after tea to look at Rosie's grave. She likes to go alone, without the children, and she also likes to stop and have a chat with someone she knows up on land. In consequence, Tony, taking his Sunday evening promenade, found the children on the Front just in that state when they want, and do not wish, to go to bed. They followed him in. "Wer's thic Mam 'Idger?" "Don' know!" "Her's gone to cementry." "Didn' ought to leave 'ee like thees yer." "Her's gone to see Rosie." Tony felt himself rather helpless. "Now then," he cried with a vain nourish, "off to bed wi' 'ee!" "No!--No!--Shan't!--Us an't had no supper." "Wer is yer supper? What be going to hae?" "Don' know.--Mam! Mam 'Idger!" One started crying, then the other. "Casn' thee put 'em to bed thyself?" I asked. "I don' know! Better wait.... Her's biding away a long time. I'll hae to talk to she." Tony sat down in the courting chair. The two boys climbed one on each of his knees. They wriggled themselves comfortable, and fell asleep. He woke them. "Won' 'ee go to bed now? I wants to go out." "No! No!" they cried peevishly. "Wer's thiccy Mam?"