r familiarity. To enter the house at which she paused it
was necessary to squeeze through a conglomerate of dirty little bodies.
At the head of the first flight of stairs she came upon a girl sitting
in a weary attitude on the top step and beating the wood listlessly
with the last remnant of a hearth-brush; on her lap was one more
specimen of the infinitely-multiplied baby, and a child of two years
sprawled behind her on the landing.

'Waiting for him to come home, Pennyloaf?' said Jane.

'Oh, is that you, Miss Snowdon!' exclaimed the other, returning to
consciousness and manifesting some shame at being discovered in this
position. Hastily she drew together the front of her dress, which for
the baby's sake had been wide open, and rose to her feet. Pennyloaf was
not a bit more womanly in figure than on the day of her marriage; her
voice was still an immature treble; the same rueful irresponsibility
marked her features; but all her poor prettiness was wasted under the
disfigurement of pains and cares, Incongruously enough, she wore a gown
of bright-patterned calico, and about her neck had a collar of
pretentious lace; her hair was dressed as if for a holiday, and a daub
recently made on her cheeks by the baby's fingers lent emphasis to the
fact that she had but a little while ago washed herself with much care.

'I can't stop,' said Jane, 'but I thought I'd just look in and speak a
word. How have you been getting on?'

'Oh, do come in for just a minute!' pleaded Pennyloaf, moving backwards
to an open door, whither Jane followed. They entered a room--much like
other rooms that we have looked into from time to time. Following the
nomadic custom of their kind, Bob Hewett and his wife had lived in six
or seven different lodgings since their honeymoon in Shooter's Gardens.
Mrs. Candy first of all made a change necessary, as might have been
anticipated, and the restlessness of domestic ill-being subsequently
drove them from place to place. 'Come in 'ere, Johnny,' she Called to
the child lying on the landing. 'What's the good o' washin' you, I'd
like to know? Just see, Miss Snowdon, he's made his face all white with
the milk as the boy spilt on the stairs! Take this brush an' play with
it, do! I _can't_ keep 'em clean, Miss Snowdon, so it's no use talkin'.'

'Are you going somewhere to-night?' Jane inquired, with a glance at the
strange costume.

Pennyloaf looked up and down in a shamefaced way.

'I only did it just becaus