At last the food was gone, and there was
nothing to buy fuel with. Mrs. Martin had to go to the overseer of the
poor.
She was a little, shy, hard-working woman, this Mrs. Martin; so when she
took her seat among the paupers of every sort in Mr. Lampeer's office,
and waited her turn, it was with a trembling heart. She watched the hard
man, who didn't mean to be so hard, but who couldn't tell the difference
between a good face and a counterfeit; she watched him as he went through
with the different cases, and her heart beat every minute more and more
violently. When he came to her he broke out with--
"What's _your_ name?" in a voice that sounded for all the world as if he
were accusing her of robbing a safe.
"Sarah Martin," said the widow, trembling with terror, and growing red
and white in turns. Mr. Lampeer, who was on the lookout for any sign of
guiltiness, was now sure that Mrs. Martin could not be honest.
"Where do you live?" This was spoken with a half sneer.
"In Slab Alley," whispered the widow, for her voice was scared out of
her.
"How many children have you got?"
Mrs. Martin gave him the list of her five, with their ages, telling him
of little Harry, who was six years old and an invalid.
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