for trustin' her with the money to pay, but I get a bit
careless now an' then, an' forgot. You do look bad, Bob, an' there's no
mistake. Would you feel better if I lighted a bit o' fire?'

'Yes; I feel cold. I was hot just now.'

'You needn't be afraid o' the coals. Mother goes round the streets
after the coal-carts, an' you wouldn't believe what a lot she picks up
some days. You see, we're neither of us in the 'ouse very often; we
don't burn much.'

He lit a fire, and Bob dragged himself near to it. In the meantime the
quietness of the house was suffering a disturbance familiar to its
denizens. Mr. Hope--you remember Mr. Hope?--had just returned from an
evening at the public-house, and was bent on sustaining his reputation
for unmatched vigour of language. He was quarrelling with his wife and
daughters; their high notes of vituperation mingled in the most
effective way with his manly thunder. To hear Mr. Hope's expressions, a
stranger would have imagined him on the very point of savagely
murdering all his family.

Another voice became audible. It was that of Ned Higgs, who had opened
his door to bellow curses at the disturbers of his rest.

'They'll be wakin' mother,' said Stephen. 'There, I knew they would.'

Mrs. Candy stirred, and, after a few vain efforts to raise herself,
started up suddenly. She fixed her eyes on the fire, which was just
beginning to blaze, and uttered a dreadful cry, a shriek of mad terror.

'O God!' groaned her son. 'I hope it ain't goin' to be one of her bad
nights. Mother, mother! what's wrong with you? See, come to the fire
an' warm yourself, mother.'

She repeated the cry two or three times, but with less violence; then,
as though exhausted, she fell face downwards, her arms folded about her
head. The moaning which Bob had beard earlier in the evening
recommenced.

Happily, it was not to be one of her bad nights. Fits of the horrors
only came upon her twice before morning. Towards one o'clock Stephen
had sunk into a sleep which scarcely any conceivable uproar could have
broken; he lay with his head on his right arm, his legs stretched out
at full length; his breathing was light. Bob was much later in getting
rest. As often as he slumbered for an instant, the terrible image of
his fear rose manifest before him; he saw himself in the clutch of his
hunters, just like Jack Bartley, and woke to lie quivering. Must not
that be the end of it, sooner or later? Might he not as well give