lbows
on her knees. She was in a poor state of health, and had not recovered
from the last week's outburst. It was Saturday night, but there was no
pay forthcoming from the head of the house, who was still in Duke Street
Prison. Walter looked at his mother fixedly for a moment, and the shadow
deepened on his face. She was certainly an unlovely object in her dirty,
unkempt gown, her hair half hanging on her neck, her heavy face looking
as if it had not seen soap and water for long, her dull eyes unlit by
any gleam of intelligence. Of late, since they had grown more dissipated
in their habits, Walter had fallen on the plan of keeping back his wages
till the beginning of the week--the only way in which to ensure them
food. Seldom, indeed, was anything left after Saturday and Sunday's
carousal.

'Is there anything the matter the day, mother?' he asked quite kindly
and gently, being moved by a sudden feeling of compassion for her.

'No, naething; but I'm clean dune. Wad ye no' bring in a drap, Wat?' she
said coaxingly, and her eye momentarily brightened with anticipation.

'It won't do you any good, mother, ye ken that,' he said, striving still
to speak gently, though repulsion now mingled with his pity. 'A good
dinner or supper would do ye more good. I'll bring in a bit steak, if
ye'll cook it.'

'I've nae stammick for meat,' she said, relapsing into her dull state.
'I'm no' lang for this world, an' my wee drap's the only comfort I hae.
Ye'll maybe wish ye hadna been as ill to me by an' by.'

'I'm comin' alang some nicht, Wat,' said Liz, who invariably treated
such remarks with the most profound contempt, ignoring them entirely.
'D'ye think Skinny'll let me in?'

'I daresay,' answered Walter abruptly, and, sitting down on the
window-box, he looked through the blindless window upon the masses of
roofs and the twinkling lights of the great city. His heart was heavy,
his soul sick within him. His home--so poor a home for him, and for all
who called it by that sweet name--had never appeared a more miserable
and homeless place. It was not the smallness nor the poverty of its
furnishing which concerned him, but the human beings it sheltered, who
lay a burden upon his heart. Liz was out of bed, crouching over the
fire, with an old red shawl wrapped round her--a striking-looking figure
in spite of her general _deshabille_, a girl at whom all men and many
women would look twice. He wished she were less striking, that her
appe