Next morning, however, I heard her about the house at five o’clock, and when I got down everything was tidy and the breakfast nicely laid, but Hurley sat there crying. I told her that I was afraid she had passed a bad night and was suffering a great deal of pain. She said she did not mind the pain, but she could not with one hand black the boots. I told her not to mind the boots, and that I would black them till her arm got right again. ‘You won’t black boots while I am here,’ she said, and off she went, and somehow with her one hand she managed it. They were not very well done, but we all praised them, and she was the happier for having accomplished the job. That was the only time during her seven months’ stay with us that Hurley used bad language. We never had the slightest trouble with her, and as we got used to her one eye and her scars of old wounds, we had nothing but pleasure in her company. Of my little boy, a four-year-old, she was passionately fond, and, ugly as she was, he was fond of her. It would not have been well for anyone to molest him if she were by; she would have gloried in a fight for him, and even when she lay dying in Whitechapel Infirmary, nothing brought such a smile to her face as a sight of the little boy; for, by her own request, we took him with us when we visited her. I don’t know whether or not it was our imagination, but her face and voice seemed to change, and certainly she became more human. I was looking forward to her having the home of her own which I had promised her if she stayed with us twelve months, when all at once she told us that she must leave us. On being pressed to stay and her reason for leaving being asked, she said that she felt she was going to be ill, and did not want to be a burden to us. We told her it was nonsense, and that she must not go away on that account. She then said that she wanted to go to the hospital and get a glass eye, and when she had obtained it she would return to us. No persuasion had any effect; the glass eye she must have. As we never turned the key upon her, or, indeed, on any other woman, she went, and Henessey’s history was repeated. A wild night of debauch, a fight with the police, one more committal to prison, thence to Whitechapel Infirmary, a pauper’s funeral, and the world had seen the last of Susan Hurley.