“But I insist. You cannot make a living that way.” And she, quietly and unobserved, laid some money on the bench as she started toward the cellar-steps, her head almost clear. But before she could reach the steps Helen Pierson came to the cellar-door, and as she started down the first step she staggered and stumbled down the rest, reaching the room almost falling. At the same moment Loney came in from the door leading to the upper room. Muriel started as she saw the wretched creature whose fair heritage of womanhood was thus wrecked and besodden in gin, and drew aside, turning her back so that the unfortunate creature could not recognize her. For it was Helen Pierson, John Pierson’s abandoned and forsaken wife, who stood there staggering and reeling. The sordid and soiled rags that covered her so scantily told plainly to what a depth the poor creature, once so neat, had descended. No wonder Muriel, who had been the cause of this downfall, hurried to the darkest corner, shuddering and muttering: “It is she! My God! It is she!” As Helen tottered forward, almost falling, Loney caught her and helped her to sit on the bench, aided by Morris. Then Muriel, seizing the chance while all three were by the bench, hurriedly stepped to the door and up the steps, muttering: “Mother and child together, and neither one knows it. This is my work, mine, mine! And then he wonders that I drink to drown it out.” “Holt her up, Loney,” said Morris. “I will delephone Dora to pring a trink of vater. Der poor voman is sick.” With a childlike innocence Morris picked up a tin-box with a string attached to it, and by dint of shouting very loudly his request to Dora to bring a glass of water, he made himself heard and she came with it, while the father was anxiously muttering: “Mine Loney, dot voman is in a bad fix. She cannot speak nor see anydings, not now, but if she goes on like dis she will see more dings in a minute dan effer she see in her life pefore.” Dora brought the water, and the dazed creature drank it as Morris held it to her lips without knowing what it was. The shoemaker had been half-afraid to give it, for fear of some convulsion, but as Helen drank it she revived somewhat and looked at Morris, then at Loney. She stared at the child with an intensity that surprised Dora and Morris, while she asked Loney, in a husky whisper: “Who are you?” “I am Loney.” “Loney! And where’s your father and mother?” “Dead, I guess. I can just remember them, and that’s all,” said the child. “I had a child once, a boy--he is dead, I guess, and I can just remember him. A little boy who loved me. A baby whom I had taught to pray--but now he is gone with all the rest.” “Mein poor vomans. Vot has brought you to dis?” “Gin, or the want of it. Send the children away, and I will tell you.” “Dot’s a good girl, Dora; take de Loney und go py der oder room, der laty vants to make a secrets.”