without hope of ever rising again; even the stript walls appeared to
look at one another with a stony gaze of settled despair. But there
was a clean, matronly woman in the place, gliding about from side to
side with a cloth in her hands, and wiping first one, then another,
of these poor little relics of better days in a caressing way. The
shop had been her special care when times were good, and she clung
affectionately to its ruins still. Besides, going about cleaning and
arranging the little empty things in this way looked almost like
doing business. But, nevertheless, the woman had a cheerful, good-
humoured countenance. The sunshine of hope was still warm in her
heart; though there was a touch of pathos in the way she gave the
little rough counter another kindly wipe now and then, as if she
wished to keep its spirits up; and in the way she looked, now at the
buttermilk mug, then at the open door, and then at the four glass
bottles in the window, which had been gazed at so oft and so eagerly
by little children outside, in the days when spice was in them. . .
. The husband came in from the little back room. He was a hardy,
frank-looking man, and, like his wife, a trifle past middle age, I
thought; but he had nothing to say, as he stood there with his wife,
by the counter side. She answered our questions freely and simply,
and in an uncomplaining way, not making any attempt to awaken
sympathy by enlarging upon the facts of their condition. Theirs was
a family of seven--man, wife, and five children. The man was a
spinner; and his thrifty wife had managed the little shop, whilst he
worked at the mill. There are many striving people among the factory
operatives, who help up the family earnings by keeping a little shop
in this way. But this family was another of those instances in which
working people have been pulled down by misfortune before the
present crisis came on. Just previous to the mills beginning to work
short time, four of their five children had been lying ill, all at