CHAPTER V.



The next house we called at in Walker's Court was much like the
first in appearance--very little left but the walls, and that
little, such as none but the neediest would pick up, if it was
thrown out to the streets. The only person in the place was a pale,
crippled woman; her sick head, lapped in a poor white clout, swayed
languidly to and fro. Besides being a cripple, she had been ill six
years, and now her husband, also, was taken ill. He had just crept
off to fetch medicine for the two. We did not stop here long. The
hand of the Ancient Master was visible in that pallid face; those
sunken eyes, so full of deathly langour, seemed to be wandering
about in dim, flickering gazes, upon the confines of an unknown
world. I think that woman will soon be "where the weary are at
rest." As we came out, she said, slowly, and in broken, painful
utterances, that "she hoped the Lord would open the heavens for
those who had helped them." A little lower down the court, we peeped
in at two other doorways. The people were well known to my
companion, who has the charge of visiting this part of the ward.
Leaning against the door-cheek of one of these dim, unwholesome
hovels, he said, "Well, missis; how are you getting on?" There was a
tall, thin woman inside. She seemed to be far gone in some
exhausting illness. With slow difficulty she rose to her feet, and,
setting her hands to her sides, gasped out, "My coals are done." He
made a note, and said, I'll send you some more." Her other wants