The evil time came again, and John Redburn sank down lower than ever before. His wife lost all hope of him, and struggled, with the courage of a hero and the fortitude of a martyr, against the adverse tide that set against her. She was fortunate in obtaining plenty of sewing, and was able to support herself and child very well; but her husband, now lost to all sense of decency, contrived to obtain, from time to time, a portion of her hard earnings. She could never have believed that John Redburn would come to this; for, as a clerk in her father's counting room, he had been all that was good and noble; but there he was a miserable sot, lost to himself, to his family, and the world. One morning in winter he was brought home to her dead. He had died in the watch-house of delirium tremens. He was buried, and peace, if not hope, settled on the brow of the broken-hearted wife. Year after year Mrs. Redburn struggled on, often with feeble hands and fainting heart, to earn a subsistence for herself and Katy. She had been bred in opulence, and her wants were not so few and simple as the wants of those who have never enjoyed the luxury of a soft couch and a well-supplied table. She had never learned that calculating economy which provides a great deal with very small means. Hence it was much harder for her to support herself and child, than it would have been for one who had been brought up in a hovel. She had done very well, however, until, a few months before our story opens, she had been taken sick, and was no longer able to work. Her disease was an affection of the spine, which was at times very painful, and confined her to the bed. "But where is your father now?" asked Katy, when her mother had finished the narrative. "I do not know; if he is alive, he probably lives in Liverpool." "Why don't you write a letter to him?" "I have done so several times, but have never received any reply. I wrote shortly after your father died, giving an account of my situation. I am sure my father never could have got my letter, or he would have answered me. I know he would not let me suffer here in woe and want, if he were aware of my condition." "Why don't you write again?" "It is useless." "Let me write, mother. I will call him dear grandfather, and I am sure he will send you some money then: perhaps he will send for us to go to Liverpool, and live in his great house, and have servants to wait upon us." "Alas, my child, I have given up all hope of ever seeing him again in this world. In my letters I confessed my fault, and begged his forgiveness. He cannot be alive, or I am sure my last letters would have melted his heart." "Haven't you any brothers and sisters, mother?" "I had one sister; and I have written several letters to her, but with no better success. They may be all dead. I fear they are." "And your mother?" "She died when I was young. I know Jane would have answered my letters if she had received them." "She was your sister?"