r made him selfish to others, as well you know, Sidney. He's been
the best 'usband to me as ever a poor woman had, an' I'll say it with
my last breath.'

She cried pitifully for a few moments. Sidney, mastering his own
wretchedness, which he could not altogether conceal, made attempts to
strengthen her.

'When things are at the worst they begin to mend,' he said. 'It can't
be much longer before he gets work. And look here, Mrs. Hewett, I won't
hear a word against it; you must and shall let me lend you something to
go on with!'

'I dursn't, I dursn't, Sidney! John won't have it. He's always
a-saying: "Once begin that, an' it's all up; you never earn no more of
your own." It's one of his fancies, an' you know it is. You'll only
make trouble, Sidney.'

'Well, all I can say is, he's an unreasonable and selfish man!'

'No, no; John ain't selfish! Never say that! It's only his fancies,
Sidney.'

'Well, there's one trouble you'd better get rid of, at all events. Let
Clara go to Mrs. Tubbs. You'll never have any peace till she does, I
can see that. Why shouldn't she go, after all? She's seventeen; if she
can't respect herself now, she never will, and there's no help for it.
Tell John to let her go.'

There was bitterness in the tone with which he gave this advice; he
threw out his hands impatiently, and then flung himself back, so that
the cranky chair creaked and tottered.

'An' if 'arm comes to her, what then?' returned Mrs. Hewett
plaintively. 'We know well enough why Mrs. Tubbs wants her; it's only
because she's good-lookin', an' she'll bring more people to the bar.
John knows that, an' it makes him wild. Mind what I'm tellin' you,
Sidney; if any 'arm comes to that girl, her father'll go out of his
'ead. I know he will! I know he will! He worships the ground as she
walks on, an' if it hadn't been for that, she'd never have given him
the trouble as she is doin'. It 'ud a been better for her if she'd had
a father like mine, as was a hard, careless man. I don't wish to say no
'arm of him as is dead an' buried, an' my own father too, but he was a
hard father to us, an' as long as he lived we dursn't say not a word as
he didn't like. He'd a killed me if I'd gone on like Clara. It was a
good thing as he was gone, before--'

'Don't, don't speak of that,' interposed Kirkwood, with kindly
firmness. 'That's long since over and done with and forgotten.'

'No, no; not forgotten. Clara knows, an' that's partly why she makes