"Hem! you needn't look so pleased. I don't promise anything, mind—why, bless the girl, if she isn't off already! Well, if she takes after her father, I might do worse. Soft-hearted—a great deal too soft-hearted—but as honest as the day," and the old gentleman returns to his writing.
Betty hurries home for her father's little rent-collecting bag; and then makes her way through the network of narrow streets, in the midst of which the houses owned by Mr. Duncan stand.
Arriving at the long row, she looks round her in some dismay.
"Rent?" cries the woman bitterly.
How small the houses are—how dirty! How narrow and wretched-looking the street!
She consults her list, and knocks timidly at the door of the first number. No answer. She knocks again. A shuffling of feet follows, and presently a woman appears. She is haggard and old-looking, and the child in her arms is wailing pitifully. A second child clings to her skirt, and mother and children alike are wretchedly clad.
"Rent?" cries the woman bitterly, in answer to Betty's timid request. "Pray, how do you suppose I'm to pay the rent, and my husband still on the drink? I told the agent it was no use calling, and if he wants to turn me out, he must!"
And without giving Betty time to answer, she drags the children in, and slams the door.