least articulate beings within the confines of civilisation--has
also to do duty for friendly emphasis. 'If Mrs. Peckover can't
afford to do things respectable, who can?'

And the speaker looked defiantly about her, as if daring
contradiction. But only approving murmurs replied. Mrs. Peckover
had, in fact, the reputation of being wealthy; she was always
inheriting, always accumulating what her friends called 'interess,'
never expending as other people needs must. The lodgings she let
enabled her to live rent-free and rate-free. Clem's earnings at an
artificial-flower factory more than paid for that young lady's board
and clothing, and all other outlay was not worth mentioning as a
deduction from the income created by her sundry investments. Her
husband--ten years deceased--had been a 'moulder'; he earned on
an average between three and four pounds a week, and was so
prudently disposed that, for the last decade of his life, he made it
a rule never to spend a farthing of his wages. Mrs. Peckover at that
time kept a small beer-shop in Rosoman Street--small and
unpretending in appearance, but through it there ran a beery
Pactolus. By selling the business shortly after her husband's death,
Mrs. Peckover realised a handsome capital. She retired into private
life, having a strong sense of personal dignity, and feeling it
necessary to devote herself to the moral training of her only child.

At half-past eleven Mrs. Peckover was arrayed in her mourning
robes--new, dark-glistening. During her absence Clem had kept guard
over Mrs. Gully, whom it was very difficult indeed to restrain from
the bottles and decanters; the elder lady coming to relieve, Clem
could rush away and don her own solemn garments. The undertaker with
his men arrived; the hearse and coaches drove up; the Close was in