Mrs. Lane looked appealingly to her daughter to answer.
"We are sorry, Mrs. Conners," Anne said, "but we shall have to do our own washing, this winter."
"O Lord!" cried the woman, leaning against the wall.
"There is no help for it," the girl continued, almost sharply, feeling that their own distresses were enough for them to bear. "Our rent has been raised, and we must save all we can."
"Oh! what'll I do, at all?" exclaimed the woman, lifting both hands.
"Why, the best you can; just as we do," was the impatient reply.
Mrs. Conners looked at them attentively, and for the first time perceived signs of trouble in their faces.
"The Lord pity us!" she said. "I don't blame you. But my rent is raised, too. I've got to pay five dollars a month for the rooms I have, and I don't know where I'll get it. It's little I thought to come to this when Patrick was alive—the Lord have mercy on him! The last thing he said to me when he went away to California was, 'Margaret, keep up courage, and don't let the children on the street; and I'll send you money enough to live on; and I'll soon come back and buy us a little farm.' And all I ever heard of him, since the day he left me, is the news of his death. Now I'll have to take the children and go to the poor-house. All I could do last winter only kept their mouths full, let alone rent. I couldn't put a stitch on them nor me; and you wouldn't believe how cold I am with no stockings to my feet, and little enough under my rag of a dress. I couldn't buy coal nor wood. The children picked up sticks in the street, and after my work was over I had to go down to the dump, and pick coal till my back was broke."
"Who is your landlord?" Mrs. Lane asked.