The only little treasure she possessed were those earrings;
now they were gone, she realised how utterly alone she was in the world.
If her health were to break down to-morrow she would have to go to the
workhouse. What would become of her boy? She was afraid to think; thinking
did no good. She must not think, but must just work on, washing the
bedclothes until she could wash no longer. Wash, wash, all the week long;
and it was only by working on till one o'clock in the morning that she
sometimes managed to get the Sabbath free from washing. Never, not even in
the house in Chelsea, had she had such hard work, and she was not as
strong now as she was then. But her courage did not give way until one
Sunday Jack came to tell her that the people who employed him had sold
their business.
Then a strange weakness came over her. She thought of the endless week of
work that awaited her in the cellar, the great copper on the fire, the
heaps of soiled linen in the corner, the steam rising from the wash-tub,
and she felt she had not sufficient strength to get through another week
of such work. She looked at her son with despair in her eyes. She had
whispered to him as he lay asleep under her shawl, a tiny infant, "There
is nothing for us, my poor boy, but the workhouse," and the same thought
rose up in her mind as she looked at him, a tall lad with large grey eyes
and dark curling hair.
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