The old butler could not tell, but he--whose one desire now, coupled
with the wish to die outside a workhouse, was to save enough to bury his
own body without the interference of other people--was inclined to think
she must be dwelling on the brighter side of things; and, designing to
encourage her, he said: "Wonderful improvement in these 'ere four-wheel
cabs! Oh dear, yes! I remember of them when they were the shadders of
what they are at the present time of speakin'."

The seamstress answered in her quiet voice: "Very comfortable this is.
Sit still, Stanley!" Her little son, whose feet did not reach the floor,
was drumming his heels against the seat. He stopped and looked at her,
and the old butler addressed him.

"You'll a-remember of this occasion," he said, "when you gets older."

The little boy turned his black eyes from his mother to him who had
spoken last.

"It's a beautiful wreath," continued Creed. "I could smell of it all the
way up the stairs. There's been no expense spared; there's white laylock
in it--that's a class of flower that's very extravagant."

A train of thought having been roused too strong for his discretion, he
added: "I saw that young girl yesterday. She came interrogatin' of me in
the street."

On Mrs. Hughs' face, where till now expression had been buried, came
such a look as one may see on the face of an owl-hard, watchful, cruel;
harder, more cruel, for the softness of the big dark eyes.