handkerchief from his jacket pocket, he dried his eyes.

"The doctor up there still?" asked he.

"Bless the dear man, yes. Heavens! James Ballisat! you don't suppose that I could be such a heartless wretch as

"Anybody else up there besides the doctor?" interrupted my father.

66

'Nobody but the doctor, Jim. Why?" "Because I'm going up," said my father, resolutely.

I said I didn't mind, though I did mind a very great deal; and away they went, leaving me alone in the room. By this time it was growing darker, and nearly dark. I did not like Mrs. Jenkins overmuch, and had seldom or never been in her room before. It was a perfectly strange room to me; for though I had now been in it more than an hour, there had been so much else to engross my attention, that I had looked about me scarcely at all. There was now, however, nothing left but to look about me. There were several bird-cages, with birds in them, ranged against the wall; but, with the exception of a blackbird, all the birds were asleep, with their heads under their wings"I tell you, I'm going. Poor gal! She to still as balls of feathers. The blackbird was still, want to hold the hand that has so often hurt her! too, all but his eyes, which winked and blinked at She to beg me to be friends with her! Don't you me whenever I turned my gaze that way. There come up for a minute or so, Mrs. J. Perhaps she were, besides, the blackbird and the squirrel, a might have something-something private like—whale's tooth on the side-board, and a great-belto tell me, that she don't want anybody but me to hear."

"You? Why, you're talking like a madman," replied the aghast Mrs. Jenkins, rising and standing in the path to the door.

He was so fully determined to go, that Mrs. Jenkins made no attempt at hindrance. He stepped hastily out of the room, but scarcely had he done so when the door of our room was heard to open hastily, and the doctor's voice called out, impatiently

"Mrs. What's-o'-name? come up here, ma'am. Bother the woman! what did she want to go away just now for ?"

At this summons Mrs. Jenkins jumped up, hastily composing herself, hurried away. father followed her.

and

My

"Well, sir! and what the dickens do you want?" we heard the doctor say.

Please, sir, I'm her husband."

"You are not wanted here, whoever you are," replied the doctor, snappishly; and then came the sound of a door being closed in a very fierce and decided manner.

Down came my father again, to take me on his knee, lean his elbows on the corner of the table, and rest his face on his hands, without saying a word.

It was about the middle of September, and the evenings were growing short and chilly. So we .sat.

Old Jenkins was present: but seeing my father's condition, he took no notice, but moved softly about the room (he kept birds) pottering over a breeding cage for canaries. By and by it grew so deep twilight that, when he wanted to bore a hole to put a wire through, he had to come to the window for the sake of the light. All at once, my father, starting up, spoke with a suddenness that nearly caused the old man to bore the gimlet into his thumb.

"Good Lord! I can't stand this, Harry Jenkins; it'll strangle me if I do ;" and as he spoke, he untied and loosened his bulky yellow silk neckerchief. "I can't abide by it another minute, Harry; upon my soul, I can't. What can a fellow do ?"

"If I was you, Jim, I'd take a turn out in the fresh air; not to be gone long, you know; just ten minutes. Come on; I'll come with you, Jim." "But the boy?" said my father. "P'r'aps he'd be better for it, too."

"I'd rather leave him. D'ye think we might ?" "Course," replied Mr. Jenkins. "He won't mind just for a little while; will you, Jimmy? He will sit here, and see the squirrel run round in his treadmill."

lied jug with a man's head, with the mouth wide open for a spout. The darker it grew, the stranger everything seemed to get, and bigger and bigger the blinking eyes of the blackbird, till I was afraid to look about me at all, and kept my eyes fixed on the squirrel's cage on the table, with the little squirrel within spinning round and round in his wire wheel.

The Dutch clock in the corner had ticked off very many more than a few minutes; but my father and Mr. Jenkins did not return. It was quite dark now; and I could see nothing of the squirrel but the white patch on his breast, ever shifting, and rising and falling behind the bright bars of his prison, as he whirled it swiftly round. When I say that this was all I could see, I mean to say that this was al I tried to see. Had I looked about, no doubt I should have found the blackbird's eyes bigger and fuller of winks than ever; and, possibly, the big-bellied man-jug champing his jaws at me. There was plenty to listen to, however. There was the creaking of the squirrel's wheel, and the clawing of its feet; there was the ticking of the Dutch clock; and plain above the ticking, and the creaking, and the clawing, a dull tramp-tramp everhead, in the room above, where my mother was. Not a bustling hither and thither, but a leisurely tramp on a beat that extended from the wall to the window; the walk of somebody waiting for somebody else, who, though tardy, is sure.

At last I grew so terribly hot and frightened that I could stand it no longer; and slipping down off the chair, and shutting my eyes that I might not see that dreadful blackbird as I passed him, I groped my way out of Jenkins's room, and, creeping up the stairs about half-way, there sat down. Had nobody been with my mother but Mrs. Jenkins, I should certainly have gone all the way up; but every now and then I could make out the creaking boots, which effectually warned me off.

How could I dare venture to face a man who was so little afraid of my big, strong father that he told him he wasn't wanted, and shut the door in his face? It wasn't very comfortable sitting on the pitchy-dark, hard stairs; but it was twenty times preferable to staying in that frightful room below. Besides, there was a real bit of comfort to be found on the stairs, that was as welcome as it was unexpected. There came through the keyhole of our door a oright streak of light, long and narrow, and just enough to illuminate a solitary banister-rail. I sat on the

stair nighest to this bright rail, and laid hold of it with both my hands. It was long past my bedtime; and still holding on to my rail, and laying my face against it, I presently fell fast asleep.

CHAPTER IV.

long and stealthy steps, to the farther end of Jenkins's room, where he sat down.

"He's off at last, Jenks," said he, rubbing his hands cheerfully; "show him a light, old boy. I think it looks well-his going. He wouldn't go if she was very bad, you know."

But the disagreeable beggar was not off-at least, not straight off. He had got something to say to my father before he went; and when he

IN WHICH WORK IS CUT OUT FOR THE UNDERTAKER, reached Jenkins's landing he halted, and coughed, and tapped at the half-open door with his walking-stick.

AND MY FATHER REFUSES TO BE COMFORTED.

--

I AWOKE in a great fright. How long I had been sleeping I don't know. The light had vanished from the banister-rail, so that I was completely in the dark; and there came sounds to my ears that completely bewildered me. What with the unaccountable sounds, and the fact of my being but half-awake- and half dreaming, probably, of the winking blackbird and the big-bellied-man jug, and the other horrors on view in Jenkins's room-it was not surprising that my leading impression should be that, by some means or another, I was in the wrong house. The longer I thought about it, the plainer it appeared that it must be so. There was a baby in this house; in our house there was no baby. So I scuttled down the stairs as fast as I could, and made for the street-door.

Just as I opened it, in came my father and Mr. Jenkins. My father, indeed, nearly stumbled

over me.

"Holloa! What! is it you, Jimmy? Got tired of stopping up there by yourself-eh?"

64

Bless his young heart!" said Mr. Jenkins. "Don't you see how it is, Jim? He's been watching for us at the window, and he's just come down to let us in."

'No, I didn't," said I, catching hold on father, and mighty glad of the chance, as may be imagined. "We don't live here. You're come to the wrong house, father." Wrong house!

You're dreaming, Jimmy; it's all right, cock-o'-wax. Come up-stairs." "It is the wrong house," I persisted. "There's a baby in this house; I heard it crying." "Heard a baby crying!" exclaimed my father, eagerly. "Are you sure, Jimmy?"

The mysterious baby answered for itself, at that identical moment, in tones loud enough to be plainly heard.

Mr. Jenkins, on the way to show him a light, was just in time to confront him.

"Your name is Ballisat, I believe," said the doctor; "you are the husband of the "

"No, sir, thanky; it isn't me. Here, Jim !" "I'm the one you want, sir," said my father, coming boldly forward, with me in his arms; "I'm her husband, at your service, mister. And how might she find herself by this time, mister?

The doctor was the parish doctor — a tall, round-shouldered old gentleman, with white hair, and wearing spectacles.

"Oh, you are Mr. Ballisat!" said he, speaking in a very different voice from that which he had used to my father when ordering him about his business. "And is this the little fellow she was speaking of?"

"Werry likely, sir," replied my father; "she has been speaking about a goodish many things, so I've been told. Could we go up and have a word with her now, sir? Not as I want to disturb her-of course not; but if so be as

'Well, my little man," interrupted the doctor, taking one of my hands in his long, black-gloved own, "you must be a good boy now poor mother has gone, and then you will one day see her again. You must love your little sister, and be kind to her, for mother's sake. Good-night, my dear. Good-night, Mr. Ballisat. You must try and bear up under your loss as a man should. If you and I, my friend, could only live in the meek and forgiving spirit in which she died, we should be happy men. Good-night. If you send round in the morning, I will give you a certificate of the death."

Beyond nodding his head, my father had betrayed no sign that he had heard a word the doctor was saying. He seemed amazed; and his eyes wandered from the doctor to the stairs down which he had just come, as though he could understand it all as far as that, but no farther. When the doctor bade him good-night, he made re-him no answer beyond a nod; and it was not until old Jenkins was following the doctor down the stairs with the candle, that his speech and understanding came back to him.

"D'ye hear that, Jenkins ?" said my father. "That's jolly, aint it? I begin to think it is all right, after all, old man."

"If it is, we shall precious soon know," plied old Jenkins. "Come on up-stairs."

We went up; and before a light could be struck, I was convinced that we were in the right house by the whirring and burring noise the squirrel was making.

"I wonder whether that disagreeable beggar has gone yet?" said my father, standing in the doorway of Jenkins's room, and evidently of a mind to go up and satisfy himself on the point.

But at that very moment, the disagreeable beggar, as my father called the doctor, made known (or, rather, his boots did for him) that he had not yet departed. Creak! creak! overhead. Creak! creak! to the room-door, the handle of which was turned. Creak! creak! creak! coming down the stairs, which, when my father heard, caused him to beat a sudden retreat, with

"O Lord! O Christ! gone! gone!" he cried, in a harsh, whimpering whisper; and then, staggering back to Jenkins's room all in the dark, he set me between his knees, and cowering, with his face and arms over me, commenced sobbing and shaking like a man with the ague.

That was how old Jenkins found him when he returned with the candle-how Mrs. Jenkins and the minister, whom I had not seen go up (he must have passed me as I lay asleep holding on to the rail) found him. The minister, who was a very young man of stern aspect, endeavoured to comfort father. He pointed out to him how unbecoming it was to grieve, and how that, on the

contrary, he ought to rejoice that his wife was | ward silence of four or five minutes, my father's snatched away from a world abounding in iniqui- meaning became so clear that it was impossible ty. With his eyes so full of bitter tears, how-to mistake it; and so, by ones and twos, they ever, my father could not be brought to see the gradually dispersed; and as Mrs. Jenkins was matter in this light; instead of giving him any engaged up-stairs, we were once more left alone comfort, it only made him savage; and he flatly with old Jenkins, who shut the door. told the minister that if that was what he meant, the sooner he took himself off the better-which he did, seeming rather glad to get away.

Mrs. Jenkins, although she tried a course exactly opposite to that of the minister, was little more successful. She reminded my father of the excellence of the wife he had lost, and of the many, many kind messages she had intrusted to her (Mrs. Jenkins) for delivery.

"If you had been the best husband in the world to her, Jim, she could not have gone for

"Now, you take my advice, Jim," said he, addressing my father, "and turn in with the boy. There's my son Joe's bed in the back-room, and Joe, as you know, won't be home till the morning. Turn in, Jim; and if you can't sleep, you will be able to get a good spell of quiet."

CHAPTER V.

giving you freer," said Mrs. Jenkins. At which IN WHICH MY FATHER ENDEAVOURS TO EXPLAIN my father bowed his head lower still, and shook the more.

"Lor'! don't take on so, Jim," continued she. "Think of the two forlorn and motherless babies she has left behind her. Think of this blessed lamb, as it would have been a heavenly mercy if she had never been born. Here, Jim, look up; you hain't seen the baby."

I never dreamed she had it with her. I saw that she had a bundle of some sort, and that was all.

"Do just hold her a minute, Jim," said Mrs. Jenkins; "it will do you good, Jim-sure it will. She's just the spit of the poor dear that 's gone; the same eyes and the same hair, to a shade."

And so she wheedled the baby on to my father's lap.

"The sweet angel!" remarked a woman of the alley, (there were a good many of them in the room by this time;) "the dear innocent! with that pretty purple mark on its cheek."

66

"Which so the mother has, if you remember, ma'am," chimed in another, showing still on her poor dead face, white as wax-work."

When the woman said this, my father suddenly raised his head and gave such a start that it was a wonder the baby in its blanket did not roll off his lap and fall to the ground. As though it was of no account at all, he bundled it into Mrs. Jenkins's arms, and turned on the woman, with his swollen eyes flashing—

TO ME THE MEANING OF THE WORDS DEATH
AND "NEVER."

YOUNG Joe Jenkins's room, in which, after some persuasion, my father and myself consented to pass the night, was not exactly the sort of chamber an over-nice person would have chosen as a sleeping apartment.

Joe Jenkins was a night hand at a blackleadfactory on the Surrey side of the water, and being a long-headed and ingenious young fellow, and having a great deal of daylight at his disposal, had turned his bedroom into a workshop. His father took a great deal to "the fancy," and so did Joe. I say "the fancy," because they called it so. It meant dealing in birds, and dogs, and rabbits, and rats for the rat-pit, and ferrets. Besides "fancying" these various birds and beasts, Joe fancied birdcage-making and bird-stuffing, and the bringing-up from the nest and by hand of all sorts of singing-birds. Likewise he dealt in dog-physic and birdlime, and "salt-cats" for pigeons. The only cupboard in the room was crammed with these sort of things, as was the fireplace; and at all sides underneath the bedstead strange shapes in wood and wire-work protruded. You could not see pots or brushes about, but that painting was carried on in the room, you could smell beyond a doubt.

My father, however, was not an over-nice person. Had the bedstead been the handsomest "Let me get out of this!" said he. What mahogany four-poster ever built, instead of one d'ye mean by it? Ain't I tormented enough of the commonest scissor-pattern; had the bed with what's a-passing in my mind, without all of been down instead of cotton flock, and the counyou pecking and jawing at me? Don't you think terpane quilted satin in place of faded patchthat I knowed all about the bruise on her cheek, work; had the apartment been spacious and lofty, that you must twit me about it? Look here! instead of small and of a decidedly "cupboardy If I could wash out that mark with the blood odour, my father could not have rested a bit betout of the hand that made it-with this hand-ter than he did, which was not at all. I'd chop it off now before your eyes. But it's there, and it'll have to stop; and it's there, (pointing to the baby,) and there it will have to stop, too, staring me in the face all my life. Ain't that punishment enough, don't you think? If you don't, you should feel it. Lord send you could feel for a minute what I've been feeling all through this blessed night! It would teach you better, I'll wager."

Old Jenkins's prognostication, that if my father could not sleep he would be benefited by a spell of quiet, did not come true. While the people in the house were still up and about, while footsteps up and down the stairs might be heard, and the street cries out in Turnmill Street continued, he lay quiet enough; and had it not been for his fidgeting and tossing his arms about, and the odd noises he from time to time made with his lips, I And having said all this, very quick and very should have thought that he was asleep. Not loud, my father sank down on his chair again, that I wanted him to go to sleep. I lay quiet too, and hid his face on his arms, which rested on the but I was painfully broad awake, and could distable, as though he wanted no further talk with tinctly make out the creaking of the axletree of anybody. The company did not appear to be the squirrel's cylinder in the front room, and the in a hurry to take the hint; but after an awk-clawing of its feet against the wires. I was a

very long way from comfortable in my mind. I didn't exactly know what, but that something dreadful was the matter I had no doubt.

it all as plainly as did I, understanding it much better. Soon, however, as all was quiet, he rose on his elbow, and leaning over the side of the bed, felt about the floor, evidently for the purpose of finding the key the woman had pushed under the door.

What could he want with it? Was it his intention, as the woman said it probably would be, to go up and "take a peep?" Was he going up

Gradually the noises in the street and in the alley subsided, and all without was quiet. All within was quiet also, except that in the front room overhead the muffled shuffling of feet and an indistinct humming as of two persons conversing in whispers continued. As the other noises died away these last mentioned grew plainer." Knowing the room as I did, I could as easily as possible follow the footsteps, and knew exactly where the two whisperers halted. In about an hour, however, the whisperers came together to the room-door, shut it, locked it on the outside, and hastened down-stairs. When they reached the door of the room where we were, said one to the other

"What shall we do with the candle?" "Blow it out, and stand it just outside the door, here."

"Ah, that's the ticket. He and the boy are sleeping in here, you know. I'll put it down along with the lucifer matches."

"No occasion to leave the matches, as I see." "You don't know: he might take it into his head to want to go up and have a peep, and I don't suppose he would care about going up in the dark."

"I should rather think not," replied the other woman, with a stifled giggle. "If he's the man I take him for, he'll be in no hurry to pay her a visit, daylight or dark. At least I should not like to if I was him."

"Why not?"

There was no answer to this, at least no verbal answer. That the party questioned made some sort of response or sign was plain, however, for the other replied

"Oh! I don't know. Old Nick, you know, is not so black as he is painted, they say. You can't say what you'd do if you stood in his shoes. There's an old saying and a true one, that there is no cure for a burn like holding it to the fire."

"Well, make haste tying your pattens on; we shan't be able to get a drain at the 'Stile' before they shuts up."

"I'm ready when you are." "How about the key? "Well, it's no use leaving him the candle and the matches without we leave him the key. Lay it down with 'em."

"I know a safer way than that. That's how to do it." And as she spoke she pushed the key under the door into the room, as I could tell by the scrooping noise.

to cure his burns by holding them to the fire," whatever that meant? This could hardly be, because if he meant to go up to our room, his most natural course would be to get up and light the candle, which he would want to show him the way, and which would make his search after the key an easy matter. No, he was not going upstairs. After groping about for more than a minute, he fished up the key, and lifting up his pillow placed it underneath.

"That's summat of a keepsake, anyhow," he whispered; and then he laid his head down, as though at last he really was going to sleep.

But somehow he couldn't manage it. No position suited him for as long as five minutes. He tossed and tumbled this side and that with his face to the wall-with his face to the windowwith his arms folded tight over his breast, and then again pressed across his eyes, as though to keep them closed whether they would or no. But he couldn't be still. One thing, however, I could not help remarking. Whichever way he stirred, he was careful to avoid disturbing me. Every time he made an awkward lurch, he would pat me softly on the shoulder, and whisper "hus-sh!" as though afraid that I might wake.

But he need not have taken any pains on that score. I was awake-broad awake-though still as a mouse. My mind was utterly bewildered by the quick succession of marvellous events that had transpired during the day. What, after all, was the matter with mother? That was the foremost puzzle in my mind. Mrs. Jenkins had said she was gone," and yet the two women were engaged up-stairs hours afterwards,―engaged in our room, and with my mother beyond a doubt; for had not the women when they talked about the key and the candle said, "Perhaps he would like to go up and have a peep at her?" Again, if she was 66 gone," why had they locked the door? and still, again, if she was not gone, but was simply lying abed, why had they locked the door? Had they left her all alone and in the dark because she was ill? Still, if Mrs. Jenkins's word might be taken for it, mother had gone. "Poor dear creature, and was you with her, ma'am, when she went ?" a woman asked of her, and she answered, "Yes, I was with her till the last." It was altogether a maze to me, and the further I endeavoured to penetrate it the more I

Then, as my sense of smell plainly informed me, they blew the candle out and went downstairs. They did not go down in the dark, how-became bewildered. ever. They struck a light with a lucifer match against the wall against which our heads lay. The match, however, went out before they got half-way down; for one of them exclaimed"Drat the thing! it's gone out, and I haven't got another! Never mind; come along."

And then they were heard hurrying along the passage towards the street door, which they banged with a heartiness that showed how glad they were to get out of a house where death was.

My father lay quite still while the whispering was going on without, and without doubt heard!

"How

If my mother was gone, where was she gone to, and how long would it be before she returned? She was never coming back. That was another remark Mrs. Jenkins had made use of. long will it be before mother comes home again, ma'am?" I asked her; and her reply was, "She will never come home again, my poor boy. She has gone away for ever to the place where all good people go, and she will never come back any more."

How long was "never?”

Was it a day, a week, a month? Was it far

ther off than my birthday, or next Christmas? | you mind what she says, Jimmy. It isn't no use "Were there more sorts of "never" than one? of her trying to keep your pluck up by telling I had often heard the word used between my you a parcel of lies. Mother's gone, Jimmy. father and mother; but, according to my observ- She isn't coming back. She can't come back. ation, its meaning was uncertain. I had heard Bushels and sackfuls of money wouldn't fetch my father say to my mother, "Curse you, I have her back. How can she, Jimmy, when she's done with you. I'll never break bread along with dead? You knew that mother was dead, didn't you again; if I do, I hope it may choke me." you?" This he would say at breakfast-time; yet he has "Dead!" returned at night and ate his supper with my mother the same as usual, breaking bread and eating it without being choked. "I'll never forgive you, Jim," said my mother that time when he sneered at her about being only fit to live in Turkey, and struck her down beside the fender; "I'll never, never forgive you, Jim, while I've got breath left in my body;" and yet, according to Mrs. Jenkins, she had freely forgiven him. She had been longing all that afternoon that my father might come home that she might tell him so; that she might take his hand in hers, and kiss him, and tell him that they parted good friends. It was plain that never" meant all sorts of times. But how long was this "never" of my mother's? Certainly, I would put the question to Mrs. Jenkins the very first thing in the morning. Stay! perhaps my father knew. At least there could be no harm in asking him. "Father, are you asleep?"

"No, Jimmy, I'm awake. Why?" "When is never' father?"

The question fairly startled him on his elbows. No doubt it did come rather suddenly on him. "Hus-sh! lay down, Jim. You've been a-dreaming," said he.

"I haven't been to sleep yet, father. I can't go for thinking of it. Can't you tell me when never' is? Mother's 'never,' I mean?" "Mother's 'never!"" repeated he. "Well, that's rather a queer question for a young 'un like you to ask. I don't understand you, Jimmy. What has 'never' got to do with mother?" "That's what I can't make out, I replied; "I thought you might be able to tell me."

"You go to sleep, that's a good boy," said my father, putting my head down on to the pillow, and tucking me in to make me comfortable; "you go to sleep, Jimmy; don't you trouble your head about 'never;' 'never' is a long day." "Only a day? only a long day? I'm glad of that. I'm glad it ain't more; ain't you, father?"

"Not particular glad, Jimmy; what's it got to do with me? Long day or short day, it's about the same, I reckon."

"It isn't the same to mother, is it, father?" "There you are again," replied my father, once more rising on his elbows and looking down on me; "what's it got to do with mother?"

"Never' is the time when mother is coming back to us. You'll be glad to see her come back, won't you, father?"

He rose up high on his elbows when I said this, and regarded me, as I could see by the dim moonlight that came in at the window, with not a little dismay.

"Who's been putting that into his young head?" said he.

"Mrs. Jenkins, father," I promptly replied. "Mrs. Jenkins is a precious jackass for her pains, then," said my father, savagely. "Don't

"Dead!" echoed my father, in a whisper. "You see that bird on the shelf there" (one which young Joe Jenkins had taken in hand, and was preparing for stuffing. By the dim moonlight I could make it out pretty well; and a terribly grim sight it was, without eyes, with its beak wide agape, and with bright iron skewers run through all parts of its body.) "You see that, Jimmy; well, that's death. Mother can no more come to life again, and get up and walk, than that bullfinch can hop down off the shelf and begin to pick up crumbs, and sing, and fly about the room."

"And is that never,' too, father?" I asked, eyeing the horrible bullfinch. "Does death mean the same as 'never?'

"Pretty much, I suppose," returned he. "Howsomever, that's being dead, my boy, and so you

see."

"I thought 'dead' meant 'gone,' father. The finch hasn't gone. Hasn't mother gone? Is she up-stairs with sharp things all stuck in her?" No, no! good Lord! what a fancy for a kid to lay hold on! Beggar that mother Jenkins! Look here; you know what keeps you going, don't you?"

Keeps me going, father?" I didn't know. How should I.

Keeps you walking and breathing, and that; and makes you-well, blest if I know how to bring it home to him!-makes you know what things are when you look at 'em."

"I know," said I. "My eyes."

'No; more than that. Your eyes ain't no more than your hands to see with, 'cept for the power what's give to 'em. It's your soul what's the power, Jimmy. It's your soul what keeps you going. What goes out-of you and brings you to be like that finch, is your soul, my boywhat God 'll save, if you be a good boy, like the doctor told you, and say your prayers. And when it has gone out of you, there you are; can't cry out, can't move, nor hear, nor breathe, nor see. You can't feel the least in the world. If you was pinned through and through, like that finch is, it would be all the same to you as leaving you alone. It doesn't matter who it comes to, Jimmy; it's the same thing. Death don't know nothing about Lord Mayors, nor magistrates, nor nobs and swells, as ride about in carriages; they're all the same as crossing-sweepers to him. And your mother's dead; and by and by they will bring a coffin and lay her in it, and carry her out on their shoulders and lay her in the pit-hole. My poor Polly! my poor cherrylipped gal! and that's what they will do," continued my father, carried sheer out of his depth in his earnest (though, I am bound to confess, not completely successful) endeavours to make me understand what death was; that is what they will do to my poor gal; and me laying here without having kissed you before you went, as you wanted me, or even bidding you good-bye."