"Then at the end of about five years he came again.

"He came behind me as I was opening the door with my latch-key, and laid
an unsteady hand upon my arm. It was a dark night, but a gas-lamp showed
me his face. I recognised it in spite of the red blotches and the bleary
film that hid the eyes. I caught him roughly by the arm, and hurried him
inside and up into my study.

"'Sit down,' I hissed, 'and tell me the worst first.'

"He was about to select his favourite chair. I felt that if I saw him
and that particular chair in association for the third time, I should do
something terrible to both. I snatched it away from him, and he sat down
heavily on the floor, and burst into tears. I let him remain there, and,
thickly, between hiccoughs, he told his tale.

"The laundry had gone from bad to worse. A new railway had come to the
town, altering its whole topography. The business and residential
portion had gradually shifted northward. The spot where the bar--the
particular one which I had rejected for the laundry--had formerly stood
was now the commercial centre of the city. The man who had purchased it
in place of Josiah had sold out and made a fortune. The southern area
(where the laundry was situate) was, it had been discovered, built upon a
swamp, and was in a highly unsanitary condition. Careful housewives
naturally objected to sending their washing into such a neighbourhood.

"Other troubles had also come. The baby--Josiah's pet, the one bright
thing in his life--had fallen into the copper and been boiled. Hannah's
mother had been crushed in the mangle, and was now a helpless cripple,
who had to be waited on day and night.