ho relieved them. She told me that her husband was sixty-
eight years old; she was not forty. She said that her husband was
not strong, and he had been going nearly barefoot and "clemmed" all
through last winter, and she was afraid he had got his death of
cold. They had not a bed left to lie upon. "My husband," said
she,"was a master joiner once, an' was doin' very well. But you see
how we are now." There were two portraits--oil paintings--hanging
against the wall. "Whose portraits are these?" said I. "Well; that's
my master--an' this is me," replied she. "He would have 'em taken
some time since. I couldn't think o' sellin' 'em; or else, yo see,
we've sold nearly everything we had. I did try to pawn 'em, too,
thinkin' we could get 'em back again when things came round; but, I
can assure yo, I couldn't find a broker anywhere that would tak' 'em
in." "Well, Missis," said my companion, "yo have one comfort; you
are always clean." "Eh, bless yo!" replied she, "I couldn't live
among dirt! My husban' tells me that I clean all the luck away; but
aw'm sure there's no luck i' filth; if there is, anybody may tak' it
for me."

The rain had stopt again; and after my friend had made a note
respecting some additional relief for the family, we bade the woman
good day. We had not gone far before a little ragged lass looked up
admiringly at two pinks I had stuck in my buttonhole, and holding up
her hand, said, "Eh, gi' me a posy!" My friend pointed to one of the
cottages we passed, and said that the last time he called there, he
found the family all seated round a large bowl of porridge, made of
Indian meal. This meal is sold at a penny a pound. He stopped at
another cottage and said, "Here's a house where I always find them
reading when I call. I know the people very well." He knocked and
tried the latch, but there was nobody in. As we passed an open door,
the pleasant smell of oatcake baking came suddenly upon me. It woke
up many memories of days gone by. I saw through the window a stout,
meal-dusted old woman, busy with her wooden ladle and baking-shovel
at a brisk oven. "Now, I should like to look in there for a minute
or two, if it can be done," said I. "Well," replied my friend, "this
woman is not on our books; she gets her own living in the way you
see. But come in; it will be all right; I know her very well." I was
glad of that, for I wanted to have a chat with her, and to peep at
the baking. "Good morning, Missis," said he; "h