yme once more held her head erect
and began to swing her arms.

"Martin, something must be done!"

The young doctor did not reply; his face still wore its pale, sarcastic,
observant look. He gave her arm a squeeze with a half-contemptuous
smile.

CHAPTER XV

SECOND PILGRIMAGE TO HOUND STREET

Arriving in Hound Street, Martin Stone and his companion went straight
up to Mrs. Hughs' front room. They found her doing the week's washing,
and hanging out before a scanty fire part of the little that the week
had been suffered to soil. Her arms were bare, her face and eyes red;
the steam of soapsuds had congealed on them.

Attached to the bolster by a towel, under his father's bayonet and the
oleograph depicting the Nativity, sat the baby. In the air there was
the scent of him, of walls, and washing, and red herrings. The two young
people took their seat on the window-sill.

"May we open the window, Mrs. Hughs?" said Thyme. "Or will it hurt the
baby?"

"No, miss."

"What's the matter with your wrists?" asked Martin.

The seamstress, muffing her arms with the garment she was dipping in
soapy water, did not answer.

"Don't do that. Let me have a look."

Mrs. Hughs held out her arms; the wrists were swollen and discoloured.

"The brute!" cried Thyme.

The young doctor muttered: "Done last night. Got any arnica?"

"No, Sir."

"Of course not." He laid a sixpence on the sill. "Get some and rub it
in. Mind you don't break the skin."

Thyme suddenly burst out: "Why don't you leave him, Mrs. Hughs? Why do
you live with a brute like that?"

Martin frowned.

"Any particular row," he said, "or only just the ordinary?"

Mrs. Hughs turned her face to the scanty fire. Her shoulders heaved
spasmodically.

Thus passed three minutes, then she again began rubbing the soapy
garment.

"If you don't mind, I'll smoke," said Martin. "What's your baby's name?
Bill? Here, Bill!" He placed his little finger in the baby's hand.
"Feeding him yourself?"

"Yes, sir."

"What's his number?"

"I've lost three, sir; there's only his brother Stanley now."

"One a year?"

"No, Sir. I missed two years in the war, of course."

"Hughs wounded out there?"

"Yes, sir--in the head."

"Ah! And fever?"

"Yes, Sir."

Martin tapped his pipe against his forehead. "Least drop of liquor goes
to it, I suppose?"

Mrs. Hughs paused in the dipping of a cloth; her tear-stained face
expressed resentment, as though she had detecte