t along nohow, for all they was roughed; and it
was past eleven o'clock, it was--yes, past eleven o'clock, it
was--before ever I got home; and there was my poor mother standing at
the door of the alms-house where we was livin' in Blackfriars--my poor
mother and me--and cryin' and wringin' her hands and makin' a to-do, she
was, thinking as how she had lost me altogether.

* * * * *

"Then my poor mother died," says Miss Stipp sadly, drawing her hand
across the end of her nose. "I forgit the year, but it was the fust year
that ever there come a August Bank Holiday. And she died on that day, my
poor mother did. Yuss, she died on that day. She didn't seem like dyin'
at all that there mornin,' she didn't. She eat a beautiful dinner, a bit
of boiled meat--I forgit whether it was beef or mutton--mutton, I think
it was, but anyway boiled meat; and she eat a beautiful dinner, my poor
mother did--boiled meat, greens, and pertaters; and she eat a nice
tea--well, nothin' partickler in the way of a tea, but a _comfortable_
tea; and when I came home, 'Oh Emma Jane,' she says, 'I wish I hadn't
never let you go to church this day; for this here,' she says, 'is my
very last day on earth,' she says, 'and I'm goin',' she says, 'to your
father in heaven, to take care of _him_, and I shall have to leave _you_
all alone,' she says, 'to look after yourself; and I'm most afeard,' my
poor mother said, 'what'll become of you,' she says; 'and don't forgit,'
she says, 'to say your prayers, and go reggeler to the Communion, and
always be good and obedient, and don't git doin' no vile sin, and please
God we'll all meet in heaven,' she says, 'and be more happy,' she says,
'nor what we have ever been here in Blackfriars.' And it was August Bank
Holiday, the first August Bank Holiday that ever was; and it was a
beautiful day, lovely weather it was, and my poor mother had a fit, and
never was quite the same; and she died."

Miss Stipp fetches a sigh, and shakes her head at the fire. She has been
living in the past, watching with the mind's eye her poor mother fade
slowly into eternity on that beautiful August day--the little almshouse
bedroom flooded, let us hope, with golden light, for all it was in
Blackfriars. She comes to herself with a little jerk, turns her head
slowly round to us, and smiles one of her poor, pathetic,
half-entreating smiles which make her seem like another Maggie.

And, strange to relate, Miss St