e now." And he steered her--but not unkindly--through the door.

"My good woman" stood in the crowd outside, and looked wildly round
for a sympathetic face that advertised sympathetic ears. But others had
their own troubles, and avoided her. She wanted someone to relieve her
bursting heart to; she couldn't wait till she got home.

Even "John's" attentive ear and mildly idiotic expression would have
been welcome, but he was gone. He _had_ been in court that morning,
and had won a small debt case, and had departed cheerfully, under the
impression that he lost it.

"Y'aw Mrs Aspinall, ain't you?"

She started, and looked round. He was one of those sharp, blue or
grey-eyed, sandy or freckled complexioned boys-of-the-world whom we meet
everywhere and at all times, who are always going on towards twenty, yet
never seem to get clear out of their teens, who know more than most of
us have forgotten, who understand human nature instinctively--perhaps
unconsciously--and are instinctively sympathetic and diplomatic; whose
satire is quick, keen, and dangerous, and whose tact is often superior
to that of many educated men-of-the-world. Trained from childhood in the
great school of poverty, they are full of the pathos and humour of it.

"Don't you remember me?"

"No; can't say I do. I fancy I've seen your face before somewhere."

"I was at your place when little Arvie died. I used to work with him at
Grinder Brothers', you know."

"Oh, of course I remember you! What was I thinking about? I've had such
a lot of worry lately that I don't know whether I'm on my head or my
heels. Besides, you've grown since then, and changed a lot. You're
Billy--Billy---"

"Billy Anderson's my name."

"Of course! To be sure! I remember you quite well."

"How've you been gettin' on, Mrs Aspinall?"

"Ah! Don't mention it--nothing but worry and trouble--nothing but worry
and trouble. This grinding poverty! I'll never have anything else but
worry and trouble and misery so long as I live."

"Do you live in Jones's Alley yet?"

"Yes."

"Not bin there ever since, have you?"

"No; I shifted away once, but I went back again. I was away nearly two
years."

"I thought so, because I called to see you there once. Well, I'm goin'
that way now. You goin' home, Mrs Aspinall?"

"Yes."

"Well, I'll go along with you, if you don't mind."

"Thanks. I'd be only too glad of company."

"Goin' to walk, Mrs Aspinall?" asked Bill, as the tram stopped in