er said I expected anyone to know?" But in spite of his
controversial method, he did _not_ go away to give this message; and
evidently wanted a helping hand, or at least sympathy.

His mother perceived the fact, and said magnanimously:--"You might just
as well up and tell, Micky." Then she nearly undid the effect of her
concession by saying:--"Because you know you want to!"

What saved the situation was that Micky _did_ want to. He blurted out
the news that was oppressing him, to his own great relief. "Old Mother
Prichard, Wardleses Widder upstairs, she's dead."

"Sakes alive! They was expecting her back."

"Well--she's dead, like I tell you!"

"For sure?"

"That's what her son says. If _he_ don't know, nobody don't."

"Was it him told you? I never heard tell she had a son--not Mrs.
Prichard."

Micky's family pugnacity preferred to accept this as a censure, or at
least a challenge. He raised his voice, and fired off his speech in
platoons, to say:--"Never see her son! Shouldn't know him if I _was_ to
see him. Wot--I'm telling--you--that's--wot--her--son said to the party
what commoonicated it to me. Miss Wardle she'll reco'nise the party, by
particklars giv'." This embodied the impression received from the
convict's words, which had made no claim to old Maisie as his mother.

"Whatever shall you say to Mrs. Wardle?"

Micky picked up his cap from the ground, and used it as a
nose-polisher--after slapping it on his knee to sterilise it, a use
which seemed to act in relief of perplexity. "If I know, I'm blest,"
said he. "Couldn't tell you if you was to arsk me!"

It was impossible to resist the implied appeal for help. Mrs. Ragstroar
put a large fresh potato on the table to enjoy its skin yet a little
longer, and wiped the memory of its predecessors off on her apron. "Come
along, Micky," she said. "I got to see Aunt M'riar; you come along after
me. I'll just say a word aforehand." Micky welcomed this, and saying
merely:--"Ah!--like a tip!" followed his mother down the Court to No. 7.

Someone, somewhere, must have known, clocks apart, that a day was
drawing to a close; a short winter's day, and a dark and cold one at the
best. But the someone was not in the Thames Valley, and the somewhere
surely was not Sapps Court. There Day and Night alike had been robbed of
their birthright by sheer Opacity, and humankind had to choose between
submission to Egyptian darkness and an irksome leisure, or a crippled
activity