"Yes, the last house but one on the right; front room, ground floor." "Is she at home, do you know?" "I don't know." "Thank you." The girl went her way, singing; she was in her spring. The woman entered the alley, sighing; winter had come upon her too soon. When she arrived at the last house but one on the right, she seemed to be glad to see the glimmering of a light through the torn blind on the front window. The street door stood open, and she stepped into the dark passage, and paused before the door of the room in which Mrs. Flower lived. "Janey!" she called, and listened for the answer. None reaching her ear, she entered without further ceremony. The candle, which Mr. Flower had inadvertently left alight, was burnt nearly to its socket, and the woman shivered as she noted the unmistakable signs of privation in the room. "It _is_ Janey's place, I suppose!" she said, and looking toward the mantelshelf, saw there the faded photograph of herself and sister. "Yes, it's all right." She took down the photograph, and gazed at it with a curl of her lip as rueful as it was bitter. "Here we are together, Janey and me, before . . . ." A shudder served to complete the sentence. "How well I remember the day this was taken! We had a week at the seaside, and stood together on the sands, as happy as birds. The sun was shining, the children were playing and laughing. If I had known--if I had known! I never see children laughing now, and I sometimes wonder if the sun ever comes out. I was good-looking then, and nicely dressed, and no one could say anything against me. But what's the use of thinking about it? Thinking won't alter it." She had contracted a habit of speaking to herself, and was scarcely conscious that she was uttering audible words. "I don't mean to stand it long," she said presently. "I've come to London for something, and if he doesn't do what he ought to, I'll put an end to it. As I'm a living woman, I'll put an end to it! I don't care much which way it is. I've nothing to live for now!" She sat down and covered her face with her hands; the candle had been spluttering and, being now at its last gasp, went out. The woman was left in darkness. It suited her mood. The sound of water slowly dropping outside attracted her attention. She removed her hands from her face, and listened; as she listened she followed the rhythm with the sound of her voice. "Drip, drip drip! Drip, drip, drip!" The pattering of the drops and her accompaniment fascinated her. "Drip, drip, drip!" she continued to murmur, and did not stop till another sound diverted her attention. The door of the room was sharply opened, and Mrs. Flower entered. The woman stirred in her chair. "Is that you, Prue?" asked Mrs. Flower. "Stop a minute; I'll get a light." "No," replied the woman, "it isn't Prue." "My God!" cried Mrs. Flower, "whose voice is that?"