"Because I speak a little English and should like to know it perfectly." "Do you know anybody in London?" "No; that, however, matters little; all that matters is the money for the journey." After that he grew very grave and was silent for a long while. "You know," he said at last, "that you have a friend." A few days after that conversation I fell ill with inflammation of the lungs, and had to spend several weeks in the hospital. At last when I had recovered the doctor told me that I was not strong enough for a situation, but needed careful nursing and entire rest in order to effect a complete recovery. "Could you not go home for some time?" my mistress asked me. "Where was my home?" I thought to myself. But far too proud to tell her, I agreed, and left Buda-Pesth behind me for the second time. My parents had moved to Vienna in the meantime. They had not told me much about the change, and in my heart of hearts I wondered what the new shop and the new lodging would be like. When I arrived there, however, I became very down-hearted. It was a picture of misery and desolation. The shop was very small and almost empty, and the lodging consisted of a single room that contained nothing but a little iron stove, one or two beds, a table, and a chair. Moreover, being underground, it received but little air and light. My father was alone at home, and after having greeted him I asked for my mother. He told me that she had taken a place as charwoman, and would not be in before eight o'clock in the evening. Without taking off my hat or my jacket, I sat down on one of the beds and listened silently to all that my father said. I had heard the same over and over again, and now I listened to it once more. "Do you think that you will have room for me?" I asked at last. "Of course," he replied; "but you will have to sleep in one bed with the children." "Where are the children?" "Out making money." "How?" "They are selling papers." "As soon as I feel better I will work too." "The main point is that you should be well again." I looked round the small, badly-aired room. "I am afraid I shall never get well here." "Since mother is away from home all day long, I am doing the cooking," he said; "and I think a cup of coffee will do you good." After that he broke some brushwood across his knees, and laid the fire in the stove. But as soon as he had put a match to the stove it began to smoke terribly. "That's only from the draught," my father said apologetically; "it will soon pass off." And so it did, but not before the whole room was clouded. My eyes smarted and my throat felt sore, but I said nothing, and drank the coffee that my father handed me in a cracked cup. I thought of my brother, and could not understand how it was that he gave them no help. "Where is he?" I asked aloud. "Who?" "Charlie." At that my father grew very sad. "It is very unfortunate," he replied, "but he has been out of work for sometime." "Where is he?"