by candlelight, on the one hand, and ruin, on the other. Not
that tallow candles were really much good--they got that yellow and
streaky. Why--the very gaslamps out of doors you couldn't hardly see
them, not unless you went quite up close! If it had not been that, as
Micky followed his mother down the Court, a ladder-bearer had dawned
suddenly, and died away after laying claim to lighting you up a bit down
here, no one would never have so much as guessed illumination was afoot.
But then the one gaslamp was on a bracket a great heicth up, on the wall
at the end of Druitt's garden, so called. And Mrs. Ragstroar and her son
had followed along the wood-palings in front of the houses, on the left.

Micky's flinching from his mission had grown on him so by the time they
reached the end house, that he hung back and allowed his mother to enter
first. He wanted the tip to exhaust the subject of Death, and to leave
him only the task of authentication. He did not hear what his mother
said in a quick undertone to Aunt M'riar, within, manifestly ironing.
But he heard its effect on her hearer--a cry of pain, kept under, and an
appeal to Uncle Mo, in some dark recess beyond. "Oh, Mo!--only hark at
that! Our old lady--gone!" Then Uncle Mo, emerging probably from pitch
darkness in the little parlour, and joining in the undertones on inquiry
and information mixed--mixed soon enough with sobs. Then the struggle
against them in Mo's own voice of would-be reassurance:--"Poor old
M'riar! Don't ye take on so! We'll all die one day." Then more
undertones. Then Aunt M'riar's broken voice:--"Yes--I _know_ she was
eighty"--and her complete collapse over:--"It's the children I'm
thinking of! Our children, Mo, our children!"

Old Mo saw that point. You could hear it in his voice. "Ah--the
children!" But he tried for a forlorn hope. Was it possibly a false
report? Make sure about that, anyhow, before giving way to grief! "Was
it only that young shaver of yours brought the news, Mrs. Ragstroar?
Maybe he's put the saddle on the wrong horse!"

"He's handy to tell his own tale, Mr. Wardle. Here, young Micky! Come
along in and speak for yourself." Whereupon the boy came in. He had been
secretly hoping he might escape being called into council altogether.

"You're sure you got the right of it, Michael," said Uncle Mo. "Tell it
us all over again from the beginning."

Whereupon Micky, braced by having a member of his own noble sex as
catechist, but sadl