history, but which that lady uttered with inconceivable shrillness
and volubility, the poor wench could say little,--only sob and
shiver, and gather up the clothes again, crying, "Oh, aunt, don't
speak unkind to me! I'm very unhappy, and very ill!"

"Ill, you strumpet! ill, be hanged! Ill is as ill does; and if you
are ill, it's only what you merit. Get out! dress yourself--tramp!
Get to the workhouse, and don't come to cheat me any more! Dress
yourself--do you hear? Satin petticoat forsooth, and lace to her
smock!"

Poor, wretched, chattering, burning, shivering Catherine huddled on
her clothes as well she might: she seemed hardly to know or see
what she was doing, and did not reply a single word to the many that
the landlady let fall. Cat tottered down the narrow stairs, and
through the kitchen, and to the door; which she caught hold of, and
paused awhile, and looked into Mrs. Score's face, as for one more
chance. "Get out, you nasty trull!" said that lady, sternly, with
arms akimbo; and poor Catherine, with a most piteous scream and
outgush of tears, let go of the door-post and staggered away into
the road.

* * *

"Why, no--yes--no--it is poor Catherine Hall, as I live!" said
somebody, starting up, shoving aside Mrs. Score very rudely, and
running into the road, wig off and pipe in hand. It was honest
Doctor Dobbs; and the result of his interview with Mrs. Cat was,
that he gave up for ever smoking his pipe at the "Bugle;" and that
she lay sick of a fever for some weeks in his house.