Jones came to her for the
first week's money. Ten shillings gone; only one pound fifteen shillings
left, and still she was so weak that she could hardly get up and down
stairs. But if she were twice as weak, if she had to crawl along the
street on her hands and knees, she must go to the hospital and implore the
matron to get her a situation as wet-nurse. It was raining heavily, and
Mrs. Jones said it was madness for her to go out in such weather, but go
she must; and though it was distant only a few hundred yards, she often
thought she would like to lie down and die. And at the hospital only
disappointment. Why hadn't she called yesterday? Yesterday two ladies of
title had come and taken two girls away. Such a chance might not occur for
some time. "For some time," thought Esther; "very soon I shall have to
apply for admission at the workhouse." She reminded the matron of her
promise, and returned home more dead than alive. Mrs. Jones helped her to
change her clothes, and bade her be of good heart. Esther looked at her
hopelessly, and sitting down on the edge of her bed she put the baby to
her breast.
Another week passed. She had been to the hospital every day, but no one
had been to inquire for a wet-nurse. Her money was reduced to a few
shillings, and she tried to reconcile herself to the idea that she might
do worse than to accept the harsh shelter of the workhouse.
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