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and as the door stood ajar, I pushed it open.
There were only three of them sitting at breakfast, the
child lying asleep on a bed in the corner. It was Jenny, the
mother of the dead child, who was absent. The other woman
rose on seeing me; and the men, though they were, as usual,
sulky and silent, each gave me a morose nod of recognition.
A look passed between them when Mr. Bucket followed
me in, and I was surprised to see that the woman evidently
knew him.
I had asked leave to enter of course. Liz (the only name
by which I knew her) rose to give me her own chair, but I sat
down on a stool near the fire, and Mr. Bucket took a corner
of the bedstead. Now that I had to speak and was among
people with whom I was not familiar, I became conscious of
being hurried and giddy. It was very difficult to begin, and I
could not help bursting into tears.
‘Liz,’ said I, ‘I have come a long way in the night and
through the snow to inquire after a lady—‘
‘Who has been here, you know,’ Mr. Bucket struck in,
addressing the whole group with a composed propitiatory
face; ‘that’s the lady the young lady means. The lady that was
here last night, you know.’
‘And who told YOU as there was anybody here?’ inquired
Jenny’s husband, who had made a surly stop in his eating to
listen and now measured him with his eye.
‘A person of the name of Michael Jackson, with a blue
welveteen waistcoat with a double row of mother of pearl
buttons,’ Mr. Bucket immediately answered.
‘He had as good mind his own business, whoever he is,’

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