At length the girl started up, throwing her quilt quite off, and remained seated on the edge of her cot, the look of anxiety increasing every moment on her thin pale face. In the matter of dress she seemed even worse off than her mother, and wore an old tattered earth-coloured gown, which came down to within three or four inches of her ankles, showing under it ragged stockings and shoes trodden down at heel, so much too large for her feet that they had evidently belonged to her mother. She looked tall for her years, but this was owing to her extreme thinness. Her arms were like sticks, and her sunken cheeks showed the bones of her face; but it was a pathetic face, both on account of the want and anxiety so plainly written on it and its promise of beauty. There was not a particle of colour in it, even the thin lips were almost white, but the eyes were of the purest grey, shaded by long dark lashes; while her hair, hanging uneven and disordered to her shoulders, was of a pure golden brown. “Mother, he's coming!” said the girl. “Let him come!” returned the other, without looking up or stirring. Slowly the approaching footsteps came nearer, stumbling up the dark, narrow staircase; then the door was pushed open and a man entered--a broad-chested, broad-faced rough-looking man with stubbly whiskers, wearing the dress and rusty boots of a labourer. He drew a chair to the table and sat down in silence. Presently he turned to his wife. “Well, what have you got to say?” he asked, in a somewhat unsteady voice. “Nothing,” she returned. “What have you got?” “I've got tired of walking about for a job, and I want something to eat and drink, and that's what _I've_ got.” “Then you'd better go where you can get it,” said she. “You can't find work, but you can find drink, and you ain't sober now.” For only answer he began whistling and drumming noisily on the table. Suddenly he paused and looked at her. “Ain't you done that charing job, then?” he asked with a grin. “Yes; and what's more, I got a florin and gave it to Mrs. Clark,” she replied. “You blarsted fool! what did you do that for?” “Because I'm not going to have my few sticks taken for rent and be turned into the street with my girl. That's what I did it for; and if you won't work you'll starve, so don't you come to me for anything.” Again he drummed noisily on the table, and hummed or tried to hum a tune. Presently he spoke again: “What's Fan been a-doing, then?” “You know fast enough; tramping about the streets to sell a box of matches. A nice thing!” “How much did she get?” To this question no answer was returned. “What did she get, I arsk you?” he repeated, getting up and putting his hand heavily on her shoulder. “Enough for bread,” she replied, shaking his hand off. “How much?” But as she refused to answer, he turned to the girl and repeated in a threatening tone, “How much?” She sat trembling, her eyes cast down, but silent.