"They have," said the registrar grimly. "An' buryin' him they are to-morrow."
The old woman sat down in a chair and threw her apron over her head. "Anwl!" she wailed. "Anwl, Anwl! Seven year since I set eyes on 'im, an' then he did hit me a clout and went foreign—drinkin' he'd been... Dhu! Dhu! And me his mother."
The registrar entered the squalid room, drew a chair up beside the old woman, and, sitting down, prepared to enjoy himself.
"The Ard-miralty," he began sonorously, unfolding the telegram and clearing his throat; "the Ard-miralty, look you, gives me authority to pay your fare to the East Coast of England so's you can be present at the funeral, Mrs. Jones." Then, his voice rising to the triumphal mournful "hoeul"* of the Welsh preacher, he added, "Are not two sparrows sold for one farthing——!"
* A sort of sing-song chanty.
The old woman ceased to rock herself to and fro. Her head emerged from under her apron.
"Maggie Ann!" she cried shrilly.
A slovenly girl, with a sallow face, and masses of untidy hair twisted up in curl papers, crossed the yard at the back, and stood in the doorway.
"Get you out my black dress an' my red flannel petticoat, Maggie Ann."
The registrar eyed the girl sternly. "Have you got a black dress too?" he inquired.