The poverty of the Conways, then, was unquestionable. Holdsworth had often speculated upon their position, but had never reached nearer to the mark than supposing that they lived from hand to mouth, and just made shift to support the day that was passing over them. That they were actually in want, actually destitute indeed, it had never entered his mind to imagine. He believed Conway’s story. And it was very certain that, if the man had no private means of his own, he must be hopelessly poor, for he made nothing by his profession. In all the six weeks that Holdsworth had been in Hanwitch he had not seen as many people call at Conway’s house; and of these, supposing them to be patients, half of them had come away after speaking with the servant, doubtless informed that master was out. But even guessing so much, Holdsworth guessed only half the truth: and it was well, perhaps, that he did not know all, for grief must have mastered his judgment, and forced him into the confession which he prayed, night and morning, for will to restrain. It was after dark always when Dolly, closely veiled, would creep down the road, with some little bundle under her shawl, for the pawnbroker, that she might obtain a trifle in order to furnish her child with a meal on the morrow. It was in the privacy of her own home that she laboured, as no menial ever _will_ labour; sitting up late night after night, over the endless task of darning and mending her own and her child’s shabby apparel; often going supperless to bed, and waking to a day even more hopeless than the one that had preceded it. The devoted man, who would have given his life to win her happiness, knew nothing of all this. Even his little child’s dress told him no story, though a woman might have read a full and pathetic narrative of toil and poverty in the frock, turned and re-turned, mended and patched, and darned again and again. Holdsworth seldom saw her now: yet, if ever she caught sight of him at his window, she had always a kindly smile, a grateful nod: and what with the shadow of her hat over her face, and the distance which softened the lines of care, grief, and weariness into the sweet and delicate effect of her beauty, he was ignorant of the serious and withering change that had taken place in her, even during the short time that had elapsed since they had last met and spoken in the High Street. Nelly came over to him at one o’clock, and he kept her to dinner. The child was hungry, and as he watched her eating, he thought of Dolly. “Has mamma got a good dinner to-day, darling?” The little thing looked puzzled; but upon Holdsworth repeating the question, answered “Noo.” He thought she was mistaken, since, after what Conway had told him, the man’s first action, he believed, now that he had money in his pocket, would be to attend to his wife’s necessities. But though he repeated his question in different shapes, the child invariably answered, “Noo, mamma got no din-din.”