Fan shook her head: the slow tears were beginning to fall now. "I'd do
anything for mother," she said, with a half sob, "but she's dead, and
I'll never beg more."

"That's a good girl, Fan. But you always was a good girl, I must say,
only they didn't do what's right by you. Now don't cry, poor dear, but
run up to your room and lie down; you're dead tired."

"I can't go there any more," murmured Fan, in a kind of despairing way.

"And what are you going to do? He'll do nothing for you, but 'll only
make you beg and abuse you. I know Joe Harrod, and only wish he'd got his
head broke instead of poor Margy. Ain't you got no relation you know of
to go to? She was country-bred, Margy was; she come from Norfolk, I often
heard her say."

"I've got no one," murmured Fan.

"Well, don't cry no more. Come in here; you look starved and tired to
death. When my man comes in you'll have tea with us, and I'll let you
sleep in my room. But, Fan, if Joe won't keep you and goes off and leaves
you, you'll have to go into the House, because _I_ couldn't keep
you, if I wanted ever so."

Fan followed her into her room on the ground-floor: there was a fire in
the grate, which threw a dim flickering light on the dusty-looking walls
and ceiling and the old shabby furniture, but it was very superior to the
Harrods' bare apartment, and to the poor girl it seemed a perfect haven
of rest. Retreating to a corner she sat down, and began slowly pondering
over the words the landlady had spoken. The "House" she had always been