Fifteen years she had lived in that house. It was her first home after marriage. Till his death, which occurred three years before, her husband had been tenant of the whole house, but always "let off" the upper part, which consisted of two rooms, it being a two-storied house. He died of consumption in the other room on the ground-floor, which abutted the street pavement. Her child was born in the kitchen as her husband lay dying a few feet away in the front-room. So that wretched house was dear to her, for love, death, and life had been among its visitants, and it became to her a sacred and a solemn place. She became tenant of the house, and continued to let off the two upper rooms; and with her children round her she continued her life in the lower rooms. The rent was 13s. weekly. She received 7s. 6d. weekly for the two upper rooms, leaving 5s. 6d. weekly to be the burden and anxiety of her life; so she tied knots and took in washing. The very sight of the knot-tying soon tired me, and the dark, damp atmosphere soon satisfied me. As I rose to leave, the widow invited me to "look at her boy in the other room." We went into the room in front. It was now quite dark, and the only light in the room came through the window from a street-lamp. The widow spoke to someone, but no answer came. I struck a wax match and held it aloft. A glance was enough. I asked the widow to get a lamp, and one of those cheap, dangerous abominations provided for the poor was brought to me. On the bed lay a strange-looking boy of nine, twisted and deformed in body, wizened in features, suffering writ all over him, yet apathetically and unconcernedly waiting for the end. With the lamp in my hand, I bent over him and spoke kindly to him. He looked at me, then turned away from me; he would not speak to me. Poor little fellow! He had suffered so long and so much that he expected nothing else. He knew that he was dying. What did it matter? The mothers in London streets are not squeamish, and their young children are very soon made acquainted with the mysteries of life and death. "He has been in two hospitals, and I have fetched him home to die," said the widow to me. "How long has he lain like this?" I asked. "Three months." "Who sleeps in that bed with him?" "I do, and the little boy you saw in the kitchen." "Who sleeps in the kitchen?" "Only George: he is fourteen." On inquiry, I was told that the dying boy had always been weak and ailing, and also that, when five years of age, he had been knocked down in the street by a cyclist, and that he had been crippled and twisted ever since.