“Your other name. I see you are a married woman.”
He pointed to the thin worn ring on her finger.
“Oh, yes, I’m married,” said the woman, bitterly; “worse luck.”
“You have no children, I suppose?”
“Not I.”
“I am sorry for that.”
“Sorry? I’m not. What should I have children for? To pine; while their shack of a father is idling about town and talking wind?”
“They would have been a comfort to you, may be,” said the vicar, quietly. “I hope your husband does not drink?”
“Drink?” said the woman, with a harsh laugh. “Yes, I almost wish he did more; it would stop his talking.”
“Is he a workman—at the foundry?”