"Do you think it is men's fault then, other men's, that such poor people haven't fire to keep them warm?"
"Well whose should it be, sir, if it wouldn't?"
"Might it not be the people's own fault?"
"Sartain!" cried Mrs. Staples, "when the money goes for drink. But why does it go for drink? I tell you, sir, folks loses heart when they knows there ain't enough to make a fire and buy somethin' to cook on the fire; and they goes off for what'll be meat and fire and forgetfulness too, for a time. And that's because of the great rents, that people that has no mercy lays on; and the mean little prices for work that is all one can get often, and be thankful for that. It's just runnin' a race with your strength givin' out every foot o' the way. And it's allays the rich folks does it," added Mrs. Staples, not very coherently.
"Rich people that give the low wages and put on the high rents, do you mean?"
"That's what I just do mean; and I ought to know. If a body once gets down, there's no chance to get up again, and then the drink comes easy."
"Do you know of anybody in distress near here, Mrs. Staples?" Matilda asked.
"Half of 'em is, I guess," was the answer.
"But is there anybody you know?"
"Mrs. Binn's little boy is sick," remarked Sarah, as her mother was pondering.