er livin' a-sellin' flowers o' fine
days, an' a-doin' the rainy-night dodge with baskets when it's wet ";
an' so I took 'er in, an' in the street she'd all of a suddent bust
out a-singin' songs about Snowdon an' sich like, just as if she was
a-singin' in a dream, and folk used to like to 'ear 'er an' gev 'er
money; an' I was a good mother to 'er, I was, an' them as sez I
worn't is cussed liars.'

'And she never came to any harm?' I said, holding the great muscular
hands between my two palms, unwilling to let them go. 'She never came
to any harm?'

'Ain't I said so more nor wunst? I swore on the Bible--there's the
very Bible, under the match-box, agin the winder--on that very Bible
I swore as my port Jenny brought from Wales, an' as I've never popped
yit that this pore half-sharp gal should never go wrong through me;
an' then, arter I swore that, my pore Jenny let me alone, an' I never
'eard 'er v'ice no more a-cryin'. "Mother, vi'lets, vi'lets; mother,
vi'lets, vi'lets!" An' many's the chap as 'as come leerin' after 'er
as I've sent away with a flea in 'is ear. Cuss 'em all; they's all
bad alike about purty gals, men is. She's never comed to no wrong
through _me_. Didn't I ammost kill a real sailor capting when I used
to live in the East End 'cause he tried to meddle with 'er? An'
worn't that the reason why I left my 'um close to Radcliffe 'Ighway
an' comed 'ere? Them as killed 'er wur the cussed lot in the
studeros. I'm a dyin' woman; I'm as hinicent as a new-born babe. An'
there ain't nothink o' 'ern in this room on'y a pair o' ole shoes an'
a few rags in that ole trunk under the winder.'

I went to the trunk and raised the lid. The tattered, stained remains
of the very dress she wore when I last saw her in the mist on
Snowdon! But what else? Pushed into an old worn shoe, which with its
fellow lay tossed among the ragged clothes, was a brown stained
letter. I took it out. It was addressed to 'Miss Winifred Wynne at
Mrs. Davies's.' Part of the envelope was torn away. It bore the
Graylingham post-mark, and its superscription was in a hand which I
did not recognise, and yet it was a hand which seemed half-familiar
to me. I opened it; I read a line or two before I fully realised what
it was--the letter, full of childish prattle, which I had written to
Winifred when I was a little boy--the first letter I wrote to her.

I forgot where I was, I forgot that Sinfi was standing outside the
door, till I heard the woman's