They crossed Wilmington Square and descended by the streets that slope to Coldbath Fields Prison. The cellar in which John Hewett and his family were housed was underneath a milk-shop; Amy led the way down stone steps from the pavement of the street into an area, where more than two people would have had difficulty in standing together. Sidney saw that the window which looked upon this space was draped with a sheet. By an open door they entered a passage, then came to the door of the room. Amy pushed it open, and showed that a lamp gave light within. To poor homes Sidney Kirkwood was no stranger, but a poorer than this now disclosed to him he had never seen. The first view of it made him draw in his breath, as though a pang went through him. Hewett was not here. The two younger children were sitting upon a mattress, eating bread. Amy stepped up to the bedside and bent to examine her mother’s face. ‘I think she’s asleep,’ she whispered, turning round to Sidney. Sleep, or death? It might well be the latter, for anything Sidney could determine to the contrary. The face he could not recognise, or only when he had gazed at it for several minutes. Oh, pitiless world, that pursues its business and its pleasure, that takes its fill of life from the rising to the going down of the sun, and within sound of its clamour is this hiding-place of anguish and desolation! ‘Mother, here’s Mr. Kirkwood.’ Repeated several times, the words at length awoke consciousness. The dying woman could not move her head from the pillow; her eyes wandered, but in the end rested upon Sidney. He saw an expression of surprise, of anxiety, then a smile of deep contentment. ‘I knew you’d come. I did so want to see you. Don’t go just yet, will you?’ The lump in his throat hindered Sidney from replying. Hot tears, an agony in the shedding, began to stream down his cheeks. ‘Where’s John?’ she continued, trying to look about the room. ‘Amy, where’s your father? He’ll come soon, Sidney. I want you and him to be friends again. He knows he’d never ought to a’ said what he did. Don’t take on so, Sidney! There’ll be Amy to look after the others. She’ll be a good girl. She’s promised me. It’s John I’m afraid for. If only he can keep from drink. Will you try and help him, Sidney?’ There was a terrible earnestness of appeal in the look she fixed upon him. Sidney replied that he would hold nothing more sacred than the charge she gave him. ‘It’ll be easier for them to live,’ continued the feeble voice. ‘I’ve been ill so long, and there’s been so much expense. Amy’ll be earning something before long.’ ‘Don’t trouble,’ Sidney answered. ‘They shall never want as long as I live—never!’ ‘Sidney, come a bit nearer. Do you know anything about _her_?’ He shook his head. ‘If ever—if ever she comes back, don’t turn away from her—will you?’ ‘I would welcome her as I would a sister of my own.’