'There's such hard things in a woman's life. What would a' become of
me, if John hadn't took pity on me! The world's a hard place; I should
be glad to leave it, if it wasn't for them as has to go on in their
trouble. I knew you'd come when I sent Amy. Oh, I feel that easier in
my mind!'

'Why didn't you send long before? No, it's my fault. Why didn't I come?
Why didn't I come?'

There was a footstep in the passage, a slow, uncertain step; then the
door moved a little. With blurred vision Sidney saw Hewett enter and
come forward. They grasped each other's hands without speaking, and
John, as though his strength were at an end, dropped upon the chair by
the bedside. For the last four or five nights he had sat there; if he
got half an hour's painful slumber now and then it was the utmost. His
face was like that of some prisoner, whom the long torture of a foul
dungeon has brought to the point of madness. He uttered only a few
words during the half-hour that Sidney still remained in the room. The
latter, when Mrs. Hewett's relapse into unconsciousness made it useless
for him to stay, beckoned Amy to follow him out into the area and put
money in her hand, begging her to get whatever was needed without
troubling her father. He would come again in the morning.

Mrs. Hewett died just before daybreak without a pang, as though death
had compassion on her. When Sidney came, about nine o'clock, he found
Amy standing at the door of the milk-shop; the people who kept it had
brought the children up into their room. Hewett still sat by the bed;
seeing Kirkwood, he pointed to the hidden face.

'How am I to bury her?' he whispered hoarsely. 'Haven't you heard about
it? They've stole the club-money; they've robbed me of it; I haven't as
much as'll pay for her coffin.'

Sidney fancied at first that the man's mind was wandering, but Hewett
took out of his pocket a scrap of newspaper in which the matter was
briefly reported.

'See, it's there. I've known since last Sunday, and I had to keep it
from her. No need to be afraid of speakin' now. They've robbed me, and
I haven't as much as'll pay for her coffin. It's a nice blasted world,
this is, where they won't let you live, and then make you pay if you
don't want to be buried like a dog! She's had nothing but pain and
poverty all her life, and now they'll pitch her out of the way in a
parish box. Do you remember what hopes I used to have when we were
first married? See the end of 'em--