in an
orange-crate, she would gladly have done so for the saving of expense;
but with relatives and neighbours to consider, she drew a great deal of
virtue out of necessity, and dealt so very handsomely with the
undertaker, that this burial would be the talk of the Close for some
weeks. The coffin was inspected inside and out, was admired and
appraised, Mrs. Peckover being at hand to check the estimates. At the
same time every most revolting detail of the dead woman's last illness
was related and discussed and mused over and exclaimed upon. 'A lovely
corpse, considerin' her years,' was the general opinion. Then all went
upstairs again, and once more refreshed themselves. The house smelt
like a bar-room.

'Everythink most respectable, I'm sure!' remarked the female mourners
to each other, as they crowded together in the parlour.

'An' so it had ought to be!' exclaimed one, in an indignant tone, such
as is reserved for the expression of offence among educated people, but
among the poor--the London poor, least original and least articulate
beings within the confines of civilisation--has also to do duty for
friendly emphasis. 'If Mrs. Peckover can't afford to do things
respectable, who can?'

And the speaker looked defiantly about her, as if daring contradiction.
But only approving murmurs replied. Mrs. Peckover had, in fact, the
reputation of being wealthy; she was always inheriting, always
accumulating what her friends called 'interess,' never expending as
other people needs must. The lodgings she let enabled her to live
rent-free and rate-free. Clem's earnings at an artificial-flower
factory more than paid for that young lady's board and clothing, and
all other outlay was not worth mentioning as a deduction from the
income created by her sundry investments. Her husband--ten years
deceased--had been a 'moulder'; he earned on an average between three
and four pounds a week, and was so prudently disposed that, for the
last decade of his life, he made it a rule never to spend a farthing of
his wages. Mrs. Peckover at that time kept a small beer-shop in Rosoman
Street--small and unpretending in appearance, but through it there ran
a beery Pactolus. By selling the business shortly after her husband's
death, Mrs. Peckover realised a handsome capital. She retired into
private life, having a strong sense of personal dignity, and feeling it
necessary to devote herself to the moral training of her only child.

At half-past el