"He's got religion, sir," answered simple Ruth. "Only where it is it's no good to him." That evening, when Ern entered, heavy once again with defeat, she told him the news. At the moment she was standing at the sink washing up, and did not even turn to face him. He made as though to approach her and then halted. Something about her back forbade him. "It shan't happen again, Ruth," he said. She met him remorseless as a rock of granite. "No, not till next time," she answered. He stood a moment eyeing her back hungrily. Then he went out. He was hardly gone when his father lumbered into the kitchen. The old gentleman's eyes fell at once on the clock-deserted mantel-piece. "Gone to be mended," he said to himself, and took out of his waistcoat pocket the huge old gold watch with a coat of arms on the back, beloved of the children, that had itself some fifteen years before made a romantic pilgrimage to Mr. Goldmann's in Sea-gate. Then he bustled to the cupboard where was the box containing a hammer and a few tools. He put a nail in the wall, hammered his thumb, sucked it with a good deal of slobber, but got the nail in at last. "Without any help too," he said to himself, not without a touch of complacency as he hung the watch on it. Ruth watched him with wistful affection. Pleased with himself and his action, as is only the man who rarely uses his hands, he stood back and admired his work. "There!" he said. "Didn't know I was a handy man, did you? It'll keep you going anyway till the clock comes back." He left more hurriedly than usual, and when he was gone Ruth found two shillings on the mantel-piece. The old man's kindness and her own sense of humiliation were too much for Ruth. She went out into the back-yard; and there Joe found her, standing like a school-girl, her hands behind her, looking up at the church-tower. Quietly he came to her and peeped round at her face, which was crumpled and furrowed, the tears pouring down. "I'd as lief give up all together for all the good it is," she gulped between her sobs. He put out his hand to gather her. She turned on him, her eyes smouldering and sullen beneath the water-floods. "Ah, you, would you?" she snarled. As she faced him he saw that the brooch she usually wore at her throat was gone, and her neck, round and full, was exposed. She saw the direction of his eyes. "Yes," she said, "that's gone too. I'll be lucky soon if I'm left the clothes I stand up in." He put out a sturdy finger and stroked her bare throat. She struck it aside with ferocity. "What _do_ you want then?" he asked. "You know what I want," she answered huskily. "What's that?" "A man--to make a home and keep the children." "Well, here's one a-waitin." She flung him off and moved heavily into the kitchen. Just then there was a tap at the window. It was little Alice calling for her mother to come and tuck her up. CHAPTER XX THE VANQUISHED