She's close as a clam in this matter."

By and by there appeared in the lane a drunken man. As he staggered along
he was exposed to all the pitiless pelting of the wild north east rain,
and moved away like a dark, forlorn shadow.

"Poor fellow!" the sympathizing Charlie exclaimed. "Who's that, I wonder?"

"Where?"

"A drunken man in the lane."

"If people would only take the water inside and the rum outside, sort of
turnin' things round, it would be much better, better," said Aunt Stanshy,
going to the window. She gave one look and came back to her ironing.
Charlie thought he heard her sigh. He had already noticed that Aunt
Stanshy never made fun of drunken people.

"Who is it?" he asked.

She did not answer, but taking up her flat-iron again, pounded the clothes
with it vigorously, as if trying to call attention from herself to her
work.

"Is she crying?" thought Charlie.

As if wet with her tears, her spectacles gleamed sharply. The muscles of
her arms swelled as she pounded the innocent sheet before her, and Charlie
was reluctant to ask again. For some time there was silence, the only
interrupting sound being Aunt Stanshy's pound--pound--pound. Charlie sat