of Essex Street, staring across the
Strand, which, even yet, had scarcely awoke into life. Presently I
felt my sleeve pulled, and heard the woman's voice.

'You didn't know as I was cluss behind you all the while, a-watchin'
your tantrums. Never spile a good mind, my young swell. Out with
t'other quid, an' then I'll tell you somethink about my pootty darter
as is on my mind.'

I gave her money, but got nothing from her save more incoherent lies
and self-contradictions about the time of the funeral.

'Point out the spot where she used to stand and beg. No, don't stand
on it yourself, but point it out.'

'This is the werry spot. She used to hold out her matches like this
'ere,--my darter used,--an' say texes out o' the Bible. She loved
beggin', pore dear!'

'Texts from the Bible?' I said, staggering under a new thought that
seemed to strike through me like a bar of hot metal. 'Can you
remember any one of them?'

'It was allus the same tex', an' I ought to remember it well enough,
for I've 'eerd it times enough. She wur like you for poll-parritin'
ways, and used to say the same thing over an' over ag'in. It wur
allus, "Let his children be wagabones and beg their bread; let them
seek it also out of desolate places." Why, you're at it
ag'in--gurnin' ag'in. You _must_ be drunk.'

Again there came upon me the involuntary laughter of heart-agony at
its tensest. I cried aloud: 'Faith and Love! Faith and Love! That
farce of the Raxton crypt with the great-grandmother's fool on his
knees shall be repeated for the delight of Nin-ki-gal and the Danish
skeletons and the ancestral ghosts from Hugh the Crusader down to the
hero of the knee-caps and mittens; and there shall be a dance of
death and a song, and the burden shall be--

As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods:
They kill us for their sport.'

Misery had made me a maniac at last; my brain swam, and the head of
the woman seemed to be growing before me--seemed once more to be
transfigured before me into a monstrous mountainous representation of
an awful mockery-goddess and columbine-queen, down whose merry
wrinkles were flowing tears that were at once tears of Olympian
laughter and tears of the oceanic misery of Man.

'Well, you _are_ a rum un, and no mistake,' said the woman. 'But who
the dickens _are_ you? _That's_ what licks me. Who the dickens _are_
you? Howsomever, if you'll fork out another quid, the Queen of the
Jokes'll tell you some'ink to