Tin-tinkle-tinkle-tinkle, went the bell, As I pushed in; and, once again, the smell Of groceries, and news-sheets freshly-printed, That always greeted me when I looked in To buy my evening-paper: but, to-night, I wondered not to see the well-known face, With kind, brown eyes, and ever-friendly smile, Behind the counter; and to find the place Deserted at this hour, and not a light In either window. Waiting there, a while, Though wondering at what change these changes hinted, I yet was grateful for the quiet gloom-- Lit only by a gleam from the back-room, And, here and there, a glint of glass and tin-- So pleasant, after all the flare and din And hubbub of the foundry: and my eyes, Still tingling from the smoke, were glad to rest Upon the ordered shelves, so neatly dressed That, even in the dusk, they seemed to tell No little of the hand that kept them clean, And of the head that sorted things so well That naught of waste or worry could be seen, And kept all sweet with ever-fresh supplies. And, as I thought upon her quiet way, Wondering what could have got her, that she’d left The shop, unlit, untended, and bereft Of her kind presence, overhead I heard A tiptoe creak, as though somebody stirred, With careful step, across the upper floor: Then all was silent, till the back-room door Swung open; and her husband hurried in. He feared he’d kept me, waiting in the dark; And he was sorry: but his wife who served The customers at night-time usually-- While he made up the ledger after tea, Was busy, when I ... Well, to tell the truth, They were in trouble, for their little son Had come in ill from school ... the doctor said Pneumonia ... they’d been putting him to bed: Perhaps, I’d heard them, moving overhead, For boards would creak, and creak, for all your care. They hoped the best; for he was young; and youth Could come through much; and all that could be done Would be ... then he stood, listening, quite unnerved, As though he heard a footstep on the stair, Though I heard nothing: but at my remark About the fog and sleet, he turned, And answered quickly, as there burned In his brown eyes an eager flame: The raw and damp were much to blame: If but his son might breathe West-country air! A certain Cornish village he could name Was just the place; if they could send him there, And only for a week, he’d come back stronger... And then, again, he listened: and I took My paper, and went, afraid to keep him longer; And left him standing with that haggard look.