There had been an accident some six weeks before, and Geordie Sinclair,
badly wounded by a fall of stone, had been brought home from the pit in
a cart.

It was during the time known to old miners as the "two-and-sixpenny
winter," that being the sum of the daily wage then earned by the miners.
A financial crisis had come upon the country and the Glasgow City Bank
had failed, trade was dull, and the whole industrial system was in
chaos. It had been a hard time for Geordie Sinclair's wife, for there
were four children to provide for besides her injured husband. Work
which was well paid for was not over plentiful, and she had to toil from
early morning till far into the night to earn the bare necessities of
life. There were times like to-night, when she felt rebellious and
bitter at her plight, but her tired eyes and fingers had to get to the
end of the task, for that meant bread for the children in the morning.

The silence deepened in the little kitchen. No sound came now from the
bed, and the lamp threw eerie shadows on the walls, and the chimney
smoked incessantly.

Her eyes grew watery and smarted with the smoke. She dropped stitches
occasionally, as she hurried with her work, which had to be lifted again
when she discovered that the pattern was wrong, and sometimes quite a
considerable part had to be "ripped out," so that she could correct the
mistake.

The dismal calling of a cat outside irritated her, and the loud
complacent ticking of the clock seemed to mock her misery; but still she
worked on, the busy fingers turning the needles, as the wool unwound
itself from the balls which danced upon the floor. There was life in