. ’ He sighed. When I have traversed the streets a houseless wanderer, driven with curses from every door where I have solicited alms, and with blows from every gateway where I have sought shelter,—when I have crept into some deserted building, and stretched my wearied limbs upon a bulk, in the vain hope of repose,—or, worse than all, when, frenzied with want, I have yielded to horrible temptation, and earned a meal in the only way I could earn one,—when I have felt, at times like these, my heart sink within me, I have drank of this drink, and have at once forgotten my cares, my poverty, my guilt. Thus, all her interest in life began to centre upon the patient, who was apparently quite as anchorless as she was. Besides—there is Sir John. She had no inkling of that insupportable wrong. "There's nothing in his clothes. “Your father is dead too, I believe,” he continued, “and your mother.
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