She sobbed on and on, and no one ventured near her. It is not manners to interfere. Some of the women continued their conversation in undertones, others waited, listening sympathetically, and then at last the Irishwoman chipped in.

“It’s not my business, I know, dear, and I’ve no call to speak to you, but I wouldn’t cry if I was you, it’ll hurt your stomach something cruel.”

The woman stared with streaming eyes, the racking sobs continued. At this moment the aged crone by the fireside felt it time to sound the official note.

“You haven’t paid for your bed,” she said.

A look of furtive distress crossed the woman’s face⁠—I suppose she felt the street was very near.

“I haven’t paid yet, Ida,” she said, “but I’ve got the money⁠—only do let me have my cry out, or it won’t come.”