The sentry in question, quitting the streets, and stooping
through one of the small archways that we have before noticed,
entered a court. Here lodged a multitude of his employers;
and the long crook as it were by some sleight of hand seemed
sounding on both sides and at many windows at the same moment.
Arrived at the end of the court, he was about to touch the
window of the upper story of the last tenement, when that
window opened, and a man, pale and care-worn and in a
melancholy voice spoke to him.
"Simmons," said the man, "you need not rouse this story any
more; my daughter has left us."
"Has she left Webster's?"
"No; but she has left us. She has long murmured at her hard
lot; working like a slave and not for herself. And she has
gone, as they all go, to keep house for herself."
"That's a bad business," said the watchman, in a tone not
devoid of sympathy.
"Almost as bad as for parents to live on their childrens'
wages," replied the man mournfully.
"And how is your good woman?"
"As poorly as needs be. Harriet has never been home since
Friday night. She owes you nothing?"
"Not a halfpenny. She was as regular as a little bee and
always paid every Monday morning.
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