th paint brown from
finger-marks, with cupboard-doors off their hinges, and the grate
thick with rust. The visitor shuddered. Through the next half-open
door she saw linen, more brown than white, hanging from lines
stretched across, and steaming as it dried in the room, which was that
of five persons, eating, living, and sleeping in it.

Mrs. Rowles felt a little faint; she thought that so many stairs were
very trying. From this point there was nothing in the way of
hand-rail; so she kept close to the wall as she carried her basket up
still higher.

At the door of the back room she knocked.

There was a sort of scuffling noise inside, and a few moments passed
before it was opened.

The sisters-in-law looked at each other in amazement. Rosy Emma
Rowles, in her blue gown and straw bonnet with red roses, with her
stout alpaca umbrella and her strong basket packed tight with
vegetables, was an unaccustomed vision at No. 103; while the pale,
thin, ragged, miserable Mary Mitchell was an appalling representative
of her former self.

"Mary!"

"Is it you, Emma Rowles? However did you get here?"

"I came by the train from Littlebourne," said Mrs. Rowles simply. "May
I come in?"

"Oh, you may come in if you care to," was the bitter reply.

Mrs. Rowles looked round her as she entered, and was so much shocked
at what she saw that for a few moments she could not speak.

In the middle of the room was a square table, on which lay a mass of
thick black silk and rich trimmings, which even Emma Rowles's country
eyes could see were being put together to form a very handsome mantle
suitable for some rich lady. A steel thimble, a pair of large
scissors, a reel of cotton and another of silk lay beside the
materials. In strong contrast to this beautiful and expensive stuff
was the sight which saddened the further corner of the small room.
Close under the sloping, blackened ceiling was a mattress laid on the
floor, and on it a wan, haggard man, whom Mrs. Rowles supposed to be
Thomas Mitchell, though she hardly recognized him. There was also
another mattress on the floor. The blankets were few, but well-worn
counterpanes covered the beds. A little washstand with broken
crockery, a kettle, some jam-pots, and some medicine bottles were
about all the rest of the furniture. All that she saw told Mrs. Rowles
very plainly that her relations had fallen into deep poverty.

"Why, Tom," she began, "I'm afraid you are ill."

"Been ill thes