“No, sir; I’m out because I’ve no place to go.”
“How’s that?”
She told him the story of the baby-farmer and he listened kindly, and she thought the necessary miracle was about to happen. But he only complimented her on her pluck and got up to go. Then she understood that he did not care to listen to sad stories, and a vagrant came and sat down.
“The ‘copper,’” he said, “will be moving us on presently. It don’t much matter; it’s too cold to get to sleep, and I think it will rain. My cough is that bad.”
She might beg a night’s lodging of Mrs. Jones. It was far away; she did not think she could walk so far. Mrs. Jones might have left, then what would she do? The workhouse up there was much the same as the workhouse down here. Mrs. Jones couldn’t keep her for nothing, and there was no use
