h of some tangible shortcoming of theirs upon which
to thrust the blame of their helplessness. "Criminal helplessness," he
called it, mutteringly. He tried to define the idea--or the idea tried
to define itself--that they had somehow been recreant to their social
caste, by getting down into the condition and estate of what one may
call the alien poor. Carondelet street had in some way specially vexed
him to-day, and now here was this. It was bad enough, he thought, for
men to slip into riches through dark back windows; but here was a brace
of youngsters who had glided into poverty, and taken a place to which
they had no right to stoop. Treachery,--that was the name for it. And
now he must be expected,--the Doctor quite forgot that nobody had asked
him to do it,--he must be expected to come fishing them out of their
hole, like a rag-picker at a trash barrel.

--"Bringing me into this wretched alley!" he silently thought. His foot
slipped on a mossy brick. Oh, no doubt they thought they were punishing
some negligent friend or friends by letting themselves down into this
sort of thing. Never mind! He recalled the tender, confiding, friendly
way in which he had talked to John, sitting on the edge of his hospital
bed. He wished, now, he had every word back he had uttered. They might
hide away to the full content of their poverty-pride. Poverty-pride: he
had invented the term; it was the opposite pole to purse-pride--and just
as mean,--no, meaner. There! Must he yet slip down? He muttered an angry
word. Well, well, this was making himself a little the cheapest he had
ever let himself be made. And probably this was what they wanted!
Misery's revenge. Umhum! They sit down in sour darkness, eh! and make
relief seek them. It wouldn't be the first time he had caught the poor
taking savage comfort in the blush which their poverty was supposed to
bring to the cheek of better-kept kinsfolk. True, he didn't know this
was the case with the Richlings. But wasn't it? Wasn't it? And have they
a dog, that will presently hurl himself down this alley at one's legs?
He hopes so. He would so like to kick him clean over the twelve-foot
close plank fence that crowded his right shoulder. Never mind! His anger
became solemn.

The alley opened into a small, narrow yard, paved with ashes from the
gas-works. At the bottom of the yard a rough shed spanned its breadth,
and a woman was there, busily bending over a row of wash-tubs.

The Doctor knocked