Mrs. Denham sat in her parlour, a two years old baby boy asleep upon her
lap, and an anxious, mournful expression upon her face. She wore the
dress of a widow,--a dress so new in its folds that it was evidently but
a short time since the Dread Messenger had paused at her threshold to
bear away its master and bread-winner.
The room was a shabby one; the fire but a handful of dusty ashes; rain
fell without in the dreary street; it was growing dusk, and a
soul-depressing cry of "Want chee-e-ep? Do ye want chee-e-eps?" arose
ever and anon, as the ragged Irish chip boy wandered up and down.
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