on. As the old woman, with a gigantic
and distorted image of herself thrown half upon the wall behind her,
half upon the roof above, sat bending over the few loose bricks within
which it was pent, on the damp hearth of the chimney--for there was no
stove--she looked as if she were watching at some witch's altar for a
favourable token; and but that the movement of her chattering jaws and
trembling chin was too frequent and too fast for the slow flickering of
the fire, it would have seemed an illusion wrought by the light, as
it came and went, upon a face as motionless as the form to which it
belonged.

If Florence could have stood within the room and looked upon the
original of the shadow thrown upon the wall and roof as it cowered thus
over the fire, a glance might have sufficed to recall the figure of
Good Mrs Brown; notwithstanding that her childish recollection of that
terrible old woman was as grotesque and exaggerated a presentment of the
truth, perhaps, as the shadow on the wall. But Florence was not there
to look on; and Good Mrs Brown remained unrecognised, and sat staring at
her fire, unobserved.

Attracted by a louder sputtering than usual, as the rain came hissing
down the chimney in a little stream, the old woman raised her head,
impatiently, to listen afresh. And this time she did not drop it again;
for there was a hand upon the door, and a footstep in the room.

'Who's that?' she said, looking over her shoulder.

'One who brings you news, was the answer, in a woman's voice.

'News? Where from?'

'From abroad.'

'From beyond seas?' cried the old woman, starting up.

'Ay, from beyond seas.'

The old woman raked the fire together, hurriedly, and going close to
her visitor who had entered, and shut the door, and who now stood in the
middle of the room, put her hand upon the drenched cloak, and turned the
unresisting figure, so as to have it in the full light of the fire. She
did not find what she had expected, whatever that might be; for she let
the cloak go again, and uttered a querulous cry of disappointment and
misery.

'What is the matter?' asked her visitor.

'Oho! Oho!' cried the old woman, turning her face upward, with a
terrible howl.

'What is the matter?' asked the visitor again.

'It's not my gal!' cried the old woman, tossing up her arms, and
clasping her hands above her head. 'Where's my Alice? Where's my
handsome daughter? They've been the death of her!'

'They've not been the