One morning in winter he was brought home to her dead. He had
died in the watch-house of delirium tremens. He was buried, and
peace, if not hope, settled on the brow of the broken-hearted
wife.
Year after year Mrs. Redburn struggled on, often with feeble
hands and fainting heart, to earn a subsistence for herself and
Katy. She had been bred in opulence, and her wants were not so
few and simple as the wants of those who have never enjoyed the
luxury of a soft couch and a well-supplied table. She had never
learned that calculating economy which provides a great deal with
very small means.
Hence it was much harder for her to support herself and child,
than it would have been for one who had been brought up in a
hovel.
She had done very well, however, until, a few months before our
story opens, she had been taken sick, and was no longer able to
work. Her disease was an affection of the spine, which was at
times very painful, and confined her to the bed.
"But where is your father now?" asked Katy, when her mother had
finished the narrative.
"I do not know; if he is alive, he probably lives in Liverpool."
"Why don't you write a letter to him?"
"I have done so several times, but have never received any reply.
I wrote shortly after your father died, giving an account of my
situation.
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