We reached Widow Watkins' door. It was a poor place--poorer than I
had imagined; but I remembered what agonies of cleanliness had been
inflicted on me in nursery days; and took hope for John.

Sally sat in her kitchen, tidy and subdued, mending an old jacket
that had once been Bill's, until, being supplanted by the grand red
coat, it descended upon Jem, the second lad. But Bill still
engrossed the poor mother's heart--she could do nothing but weep over
him, and curse "Bonyparty." Her mind was so full of this that she
apparently failed to recognise in the decent young workman, John
Halifax, the half-starved lad she had belaboured with her tongue in
the alley. She consented at once to his lodging with her--though she
looked up with an odd stare when I said he was "a friend" of mine.

So we settled our business, first all together, then Sally and I
alone, while John went up to look at his room. I knew I could trust
Sally, whom I was glad enough to help, poor woman! She promised to
make him extra-comfortable, and keep my secret too. When John came
down she was quite civil to him--even friendly.

She said it would really be a comfort to her, that another fine,
strapping lad should sleep in Bill's bed, and be coming in and out of
her house just like her poor dear boy.

I felt rather doubtful of the resemblance, and indeed half-angry, but
John only smiled.

"And if, maybe, he'd do a hand's turn now and then about the kitchen-
-I s'pose he bean't above it?"