without a pang, as though death had compassion on her. When Sidney came, about nine o’clock, he found Amy standing at the door of the milk-shop; the people who kept it had brought the children up into their room. Hewett still sat by the bed; seeing Kirkwood, he pointed to the hidden face.
“How am I to bury her?” he whispered hoarsely. “Haven’t you heard about it? They’ve stole the club-money; they’ve robbed me of it; I haven’t as much as’ll pay for her coffin.”
Sidney fancied at first that the man’s mind was wandering, but Hewett took out of his pocket a scrap of newspaper in which the matter was briefly reported.
“See, it’s there, I’ve known since last Sunday, and I had to keep it from her. No need to be afraid of speakin’ now. They’ve robbed me, and I haven’t as much as’ll pay for her coffin. It’s a nice blasted world, this is, where they won’t let you live, and then make you pay if you don’t want to be buried like a dog! She’s had nothing but pain and
