“Shure it’s little I’d enjoy if I lived like him.”
“I agree with you, Mrs. Hogan. But I must be going.”
About three o’clock there was a knock at Mrs. Hogan’s door. A woman of thirty presented herself.
“Shure, and it’s I that am glad to see you, Mrs. Barclay,” said the hospitable widow. “I haven’t set eyes on you since you went over to live in Jersey City.”
“No, I don’t often get over here. Today I had to bring clothes to a customer, and thought I’d come and see you.”
The visitor was Ellen Barclay, whom a strange chance—or was it Providence?—had brought unwittingly to the poor home of her husband’s father.
[CHAPTER XXVI.
ELLEN BARCLAY’S DISCOVERY.]
Mrs. Barclay had only experienced a feeling of relief when her husband failed to return to her. She had grown accustomed to taking care of herself and the children without him, and his presence seemed likely only to impose upon her an additional burden. Though she earned her living in a humble way, she was fairly educated, and could sew neatly, but a brief trial with the needle satisfied her that it would be quite impossible to obtain the comforts of life for three persons in that way. So she had mastered her pride, and entered the lists as a laundress.