"You'll find it upstairs under the bed. It's got mislaid. I'm in a hurry."
"Call in the police," shouted the idiot boy.
"You'd better come upstairs and help me to find the sheet," said Esther.
The woman hesitated a moment, and then walked up in front of Esther. When they were in the bedroom she shook out her petticoats, and the sheet fell on the floor.
"There, now," said Esther, "a nice botheration you'd 've got me into. I should've had to pay for it."
"Oh, I could pay for it; it was only because I'm not very well off at present."
"Yes, you will pay for it if you don't take care," said Esther.
It was very soon after that Esther had her mother's books stolen from her. They had not been doing much business, and she had been put to sleep in one of the bedrooms. The room was suddenly wanted, and she had no time to move all her things, and when she went to make up the room she found that her mother's books and a pair of jet earrings that Fred had given her had been stolen. She could do nothing; the couple who had occupied the room were far away by this time. There was no hope of ever recovering her books and earrings, and the loss of these things caused her a great deal of unhappiness. The only little treasure she possessed were those earrings; now they were gone, she realised how utterly alone she was in the world. If her health were to break down to-morrow she would have to go to the workhouse. What would become of her boy? She was afraid to think; thinking did no good. She must not think, but must just work on, washing the bedclothes until she could wash no longer. Wash, wash, all the week long; and it was only by working on till one o'clock in the morning that she sometimes managed to get the Sabbath free from washing. Never, not even in the house in Chelsea, had she had such hard work, and she was not as strong now as she was then. But her courage did not give way until one Sunday Jack came to tell her that the people who employed him had sold their business.
Then a strange weakness came over her. She thought of the endless week of work that awaited her in the cellar, the great copper on the fire, the heaps of soiled linen in the corner, the steam rising from the wash-tub, and she felt she had not sufficient strength to get through another week of such work. She looked at her son with despair in her eyes. She had whispered to him as he lay asleep under her shawl, a tiny infant, "There is nothing for us, my poor boy, but the workhouse," and the same thought rose up in her mind as she looked at him, a tall lad with large grey eyes and dark curling hair. But she did not trouble him with her despair. She merely said—
"I don't know how we shall pull through, Jack. God will help us."