There were only three of them sitting at breakfast, the child lying asleep on a bed in the corner. It was Jenny, the mother of the dead child, who was absent. The other woman rose on seeing me; and the men, though they were, as usual, sulky and silent, each gave me a morose nod of recognition. A look passed between them when Mr. Bucket followed me in, and I was surprised to see that the woman evidently knew him.
I had asked leave to enter of course. Liz (the only name by which I knew her) rose to give me her own chair, but I sat down on a stool near the fire, and Mr. Bucket took a corner of the bedstead. Now that I had to speak and was among people with whom I was not familiar, I became conscious of being hurried and giddy. It was very difficult to begin, and I could not help bursting into tears.
“Liz,” said I, “I have come a long way in the night and through the snow to inquire after a lady—”
“Who has been here, you know,” Mr. Bucket struck in, addressing the whole group with a composed propitiatory face; “that’s the lady the young lady means. The lady that was here last night, you know.”
“And who told you as there was anybody here?” inquired Jenny’s husband, who had made a surly stop in his eating to listen and now measured him with his eye.
“A person of the name of Michael Jackson, with a blue welveteen waistcoat with a double row of mother of pearl buttons,” Mr. Bucket immediately answered.
“He had as good mind his own business, whoever he is,” growled the man.
“He’s out of employment, I believe,” said Mr. Bucket apologetically for Michael Jackson, “and so gets talking.”