To do Martha Reading justice, she had fallen in love with Sparks before intemperance had rendered his countenance repulsive and his conduct brutal. When, perceiving the power he had over her, he was mean enough to borrow and squander the slender gains she made by the laborious work of dress-making--compared to which coal-heaving must be mere child's play--she experienced a change in her feelings towards him, which she could not easily understand or define. Her thoughts of him were mingled with intense regrets and anxieties, and she looked forward to his visits with alarm. Yet those thoughts were not the result of dying affection; she felt quite certain of that, having learned from experience that, "many waters cannot quench love." One evening, about eight o'clock, Phil Sparks, having prosecuted his "business" up to that hour without success, tapped at the door of Martha's garret and entered without waiting for permission; indeed, his tapping at all was a rather unwonted piece of politeness. "Come in, Phil," said Martha, rising and shaking hands, after which she resumed her work. "You seem busy to-night," remarked Sparks, sitting down on a broken chair beside the fireless grate, and taking out his bosom companion, a short black pipe, which he began to fill. "I am always busy," said Martha, with a sigh. "An' it don't seem to agree with you, to judge from your looks," rejoined the man. This was true. The poor girl's pretty face was thin and very pale and haggard. "I was up all last night," she said, "and feel tired now, and there's not much chance of my getting to bed to-night either, because the lady for whom I am making this must have it by to-morrow afternoon at latest." Here Mr Sparks muttered something very like a malediction on ladies in general, and on ladies who "_must_" have dresses in particular. "Your fire's dead out, Martha," he added, poking among the ashes in search of a live ember. "Yes, Phil, it's out. I can't afford fire of an evening; besides it ain't cold just now." "You can afford matches, I suppose," growled Phil; "ah, here they are. Useful things matches, not only for lightin' a feller's pipe with, but also for--well; so she _must_ have it by to-morrow afternoon, must she?" "Yes, so my employer tells me." "An' she'll not take no denial, won't she?" "I believe not," replied Martha, with a faint smile, which, like a gleam of sunshine on a dark landscape, gave indication of the brightness that might have been if grey clouds of sorrow had not overspread her sky. "What's the lady's name, Martha?" "Middleton." "And w'ere abouts may she live?" "In Conway Street, Knightsbridge." "The number?" "Number 6, I believe; but why are you so particular in your inquiries about her?" said Martha, looking up for a moment from her work, while the faint gleam of sunshine again flitted over her face.