'This is the kind of thing,' I said, 'that makes me doubt whether there be a God in heaven.' 'That is only because he is down here,' answered Falconer, 'taking such good care of us all that you can't see him. There is not a gin-palace, or yet lower hell in London, in which a man or woman can be out of God. The whole being love, there is nothing for you to set it against and judge it by. So you are driven to fancies.' The house was closed, but there was light above the door. We went up to the children, and spoke to them, but all we could make out was that mammie was in there. One of them could not speak at all. Falconer knocked at the door. A good-natured-looking Irishwoman opened it a little way and peeped out. 'Here are two children crying at your door, ma'am,' said Falconer. 'Och, the darlin's! they want their mother.' 'Do you know her, then?' 'True for you, and I do. She's a mighty dacent woman in her way when the drink's out uv her, and very kind to the childher; but oncet she smells the dhrop o' gin, her head's gone intirely. The purty craytures have waked up, an' she not come home, and they've run out to look after her.' Falconer stood a moment as if thinking what would be best. The shriek of a woman rang through the night. 'There she is!' said the Irishwoman. 'For God's sake don't let her get a hould o' the darlints. She's ravin' mad. I seen her try to kill them oncet.' The shrieks came nearer and nearer, and after a few moments the woman appeared in the moonlight, tossing her arms over her head, and screaming with a despair for which she yet sought a defiant expression. Her head was uncovered, and her hair flying in tangles; her sleeves were torn, and her gaunt arms looked awful in the moonlight. She stood in the middle of the street, crying again and again, with shrill laughter between, 'Nobody cares for me, and I care for nobody! Ha! ha! ha!' 'Mammie! mammie!' cried the elder of the children, and ran towards her. The woman heard, and rushed like a fury towards the child. Falconer too ran, and caught up the child. The woman gave a howl and rushed towards the other. I caught up that one. With a last shriek, she dashed her head against the wall of the public-house, dropped on the pavement, and lay still. Falconer set the child down, lifted the wasted form in his arms, and carried it into the house. The face was blue as that of a strangled corpse. She was dead. 'Was she a married woman?' Falconer asked. 'It's myself can't tell you sir,' the Irishwoman answered. 'I never saw any boy with her.' 'Do you know where she lived?' 'No, sir. Somewhere not far off, though. The children will know.' But they stood staring at their mother, and we could get nothing out of them. They would not move from the corpse.