But the only furniture in the
house, of any kind, was two rickety chairs and a little broken deal
table, reared against the stairs, because one leg was gone. A quiet-
looking, thin woman, seemingly about fifty years of age, sat there,
when we went in. She told us that she had buried five of her
children, and that she had six yet alive, all living with her in
that poor place. They had no work, no income whatever, save what
came from the Relief Committee. Five of the children were playing in
and out, bare-footed, and, like the mother, miserably clad; but they
seemed quite unconscious that anything ailed them. I never saw finer
children anywhere. The eldest girl, about fourteen, came in whilst
we were there, and she leaned herself bashfully against the wall for
a minute or two, and then slunk slyly out again, as if ashamed of
our presence. The poor widow pointed to the cold corner where her
husband died lately. She said that "his name was Tim Pedder. His
fadder name was Timothy, an' his mudder name was Mary. He was a
driver (a driver of boat-horses on the canal); but he had bin oot o'
wark a lang time afore he dee'd.
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