Again I made some demur, and then the old man said, speaking fiercely through his grizzly beard:
"Look 'ere, missie. I 'ave a gel o' my own lost somewheres, and I wouldn't be ans'rable to my ole woman if I let you walk with a face like that."
I don't know what I said to him. I only know that my tears gushed out and that at the next moment I was sitting in the cab.
What happened then I do not remember, except that the dull rumble of the wheels told me we were passing over a bridge, and that I saw through the mist before my eyes a sluggish river, a muddy canal, and patches of marshy fields.
I think my weariness and perhaps my emotion, added to the heavy monotonous trotting of the old horse, must have put me to sleep, for after a while I was conscious of a great deal of noise, and of the old driver twisting about and shouting in a cheerful voice through the open window at the back of his seat:
"Stratford Market."
After a while we came to a broad road, full of good houses, and then the old driver cried "Ilford," and asked what part of it I wished to go to.
I reached forward and told him, "10 Lennard's Row, Lennard's Green," and then sat back with a lighter heart.
But after another little while I saw a great many funeral cars passing us, with the hearses empty, as if returning from a cemetery. This made me think of the woman and her story, and I found myself unconsciously clasping my baby closer.
The cortèges became so numerous at last that to shut out painful sights I closed my eyes and tried to think of pleasanter things.