She walked up and down listening for the cry. Every now and
then expectation led her to mistake some ordinary cry for the terrible
"Win-ner, all the win-ner," with which the whole town would echo in a few
minutes. She hastened forward. No, it was not it. At last she heard the
word shrieked behind her. She hastened after the boy, but failed to
overtake him. Returning, she met another, gave him a half-penny and took a
paper. Then she remembered she must ask the boy to tell her who won. But
heedless of her question he had run across the road to sell papers to some
men who had come out of a public-house. She must not give William the
paper and wait for him to read the news to her. If the news were bad the
shock might kill him. She must learn first what the news was, so that her
face and manner might prepare him for the worst if need be. So she offered
the paper to the porter and asked him to tell her. "Bramble, King of
Trumps, Young Hopeful," he read out.
"Are you sure that Chasuble hasn't won?"
"Of course I'm sure, there it is."
"I can't read," she said as she turned away.
The news had stunned her; the world seemed to lose reality; she was
uncertain what to do, and several times repeated to herself, "There's
nothing for it but to go up and tell him. I don't see what else I can do.
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