d in a perpetual black
sweat; a mouldy reek came from the open doorways; the beings that
passed in and out seemed soaked with grimy moisture, puffed into
distortions, hung about with rotting garments. One such was Mrs. Candy,
Pennyloaf's mother. Her clothing consisted of a single gown and a shawl
made out of the fragments of an old counterpane; her clothing--with
exception of the shoes on her feet, those two articles were literally
all that covered her bare body. Rage for drink was with her reaching
the final mania. Useless to bestow anything upon her; straightway it or
its value passed over the counter of the beershop in Rosoman Street.
She cared only for beer, the brave, thick, medicated draught, that was
so cheap and frenzied her so speedily.

Her husband was gone for good. One choking night of November he beat
her to such purpose that she was carried off to the police-station as
dead; the man effected his escape, and was not likely to show himself
in the Gardens again. With her still lived her son Stephen, the potman.
His payment was ten shillings a week (with a daily allowance of three
pints), and he saw to it that there was always a loaf of bread in the
room they occupied together. Stephen took things with much philosophy;
his mother would, of course, drink herself to death--what was there
astonishing in that? He himself had heart disease, and surely enough
would drop down dead one of these days; the one doom was no more to be
quarrelled with than the other. Pennyloaf came to see them at very long
intervals; what was the use of making her visits more frequent? She,
too, viewed with a certain equanimity the progress of her mother's
fate. Vain every kind of interposition; worse than imprudence to give
the poor creature money or money's worth. It could only be hoped that
the end would come before very long.

An interesting house, this in which Mrs. Candy resided. It contained in
all seven rooms, and each room was the home of a family; under the roof
slept twenty-five persons, men, women, and children; the lowest rent
paid by one of these domestic groups was four-and-sixpence. You would
have enjoyed a peep into the rear chamber on the ground floor. There
dwelt a family named Hope--Mr. and Mrs. Hope, Sarah Hope, aged fifteen,
Dick Hope, aged twelve, Betsy Hope, aged three. The father was a
cripple; he and his wife occupied themselves in the picking of rags--of
course at home--and I can assure you that the atmosphere o