"What a dreadful amount of trouble there is in this world, and there doesn't seem to be any way of making things better. No. 41. Oh, yes; the woman here has a tiny, tiny baby, and she's very weak and wretched, and there's a whole troop of dirty, rough-haired little children, with no one to look after them. I can't bear to knock—how can she pay anything? Well, I suppose I must."
"Come in—the door is unbolted!" cries a cheery voice, in answer to her knock—a very different voice from that she had expected to hear.
Betty steps reluctantly into the passage.
"What is it you want, please?" says the voice again, from a room at the back. Betty explains her business wonderingly; the voice is so unlike the dull, hopeless tones with which she is usually greeted.
"Oh, it's all right, Captain," says a second voice, far more feebly, "it's the young lady for the rent."
"Do come in please, and excuse me just a moment, as I can't leave the child like this," cries the cheery voice.
Whereat Betty steps to the door and peeps in.
Round a big empty packing-case, placed in the centre of the room, the tenant's three children are gathered.
The little boy, his face shining with cleanliness, and his usually tousled head smooth and glossy, is looking on, whilst a sweet-faced woman, in a blue serge dress and big apron, is washing one of his sisters in a large basin, with a plentiful supply of soap and water.
On the floor sits a third child awaiting her turn; and on the bed in the corner lies the sick woman, her baby on her arm, and such a hopeful expression on her face that Betty scarcely recognises her.