It had been this way for a week.
"Well, bring 'em in. Hold on, I'll go meself."
"She would come, Tom," said Mrs. Todd, unwinding her shawl from
her head and shoulders; "an' ye mustn't blame me, fer it's none of
my doin's. Walk in, mum; ye can speak to her yerself. Why, where
is she?"--looking out of the door into the darkness. "Oh, here ye
are; I thought ye'd skipped."
"Do ye remember me?" said the woman, stepping into the room, her
gaunt face looking more wretched under the flickering light of the
candle than it had done in the morning. "I'm the new-comer in the
tenements. Ye were in to see my girl th'other night. We're in
great trouble."
"She's not dead?" said Tom, sinking into a chair.
"No, thank God; we've got her still wid us; but me man's come home
to-night nigh crazy. He's a-walkin' the floor this minute, an' so
I goes to Mrs. Todd, an' she come wid me. If he loses the job
now, we're in the street. Only two weeks' work since las' fall,
an' the girl gettin' worse every day, and every cint in the bank
gone, an' hardly a chair lef' in the place. An' I says to him,
'I'll go meself. She come in to see Katie th' other night; she'll
listen to me.' We lived in Newark, mum, an' had four rooms and a
mahogany sofa and two carpets, till the strike come in the
clock-factory, an' me man had to quit; an' then all winter--oh,
we're not used to the likes of this!"--covering her face with her
shawl and bursting into tears.
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