“There now, Charles,” said the lady with a smile. “That is the test; you see there is no deception here, and I think that I am able to distinguish a genuine case of distress when I meet with one.--Here is a penny, my girl”--one penny after all this preamble!--“and I trust your poor mother will find it a help to her.” And then with a smile and a nod she walked off, satisfied that she had observed all due precautions in investing her penny, and that it would not be lost: for he who “giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord,” but certainly not to all the London poor. Her husband, with a less high opinion of her perspicacity, for he had muttered “Stuff and nonsense” in reply to her last remark, followed, pleased to have the business over. Fan remained standing still, undecided whether to go home or not, when to her surprise a big rough-looking workman, without stopping in his walk or speaking to her, thrust a penny into her hand. That made up the required sum of threepence, and turning into Moon Street, she ran home as fast as those ragged and loose old shoes would let her. The candle was still burning on the table, throwing its flickering yellow light on her mother's form, still sitting in the same listless attitude, staring into the empty grate. The man was now lying on the bed, apparently asleep. On her entrance the mother started up, enjoining silence, and held out her hand for the money; but before she could take it her husband awoke with a snort. “Drop that!” he growled, tumbling himself hastily off the bed, and Fan, starting back in fear, stood still. He took the coppers roughly from her, cursing her for being so long away, then taking his clay-pipe from the mantelpiece and putting on his old hat, swung out of the room; but after going a few steps he groped his way back and looked in again. “Go to bed, Margy,” he said. “Sorry I hit you, but 'tain't much, and we must give and take, you know.” And then with a nod and grin he shut the door and took himself off. Meanwhile Fan had gone to her corner and removed her old hat and kicked off her muddy shoes, and now sat there watching her mother, who had despondently settled in her chair again. “Go to bed, Fan--it's late enough,” she said. Instead of obeying her the girl came and knelt down by her side, taking one of her mother's listless hands in hers. “Mother”--she spoke in a low tone, but with a strange eagerness in her voice--“let's run away together and leave him.” “Don't talk nonsense, child! Where'd we go?” “Oh, mother, let's go right away from London--right out into the country, far as we can, where he'll never find us, where we can sit on the grass under the trees and rest.” “And leave my sticks for him to drink up? Don't you think I'm such a silly.” “Do--_do_ let's go, mother! It's worse and worse every day, and he'll kill us if we don't.”