"I shall feel better to get out and stir a little," replied the clergyman.
Mr. Royden tied Old Bill to a post, and, letting down a pair of bars for his aged friend, accompanied him along a path of saw-dust and rotten chips to the door.
They were admitted by a bent and haggard woman, who said "good-morning" to Mr. Royden and his companion, in a tone so hoarse and melancholy as to be exceedingly painful to their ears.
"Will you walk in?" she asked, holding the door open.
"Thank you. Is your daughter Margaret at home now?"
"Yes, she is."
Mrs. Bowen talked like a person who had lost all her back teeth, and her accents seemed more and more unhappy and forbidding.
"I called to see if you could let her come and help us next week," said Mr. Royden.
"I don't know. Sit down. I'll see what she says."
Having placed a couple of worn, patched and mended wooden chairs, for the callers, in the business room of the house, Mrs. Bowen disappeared.