We've got nothing to do."
"I don't recollect anything particular after I came to Liverpool.
Things seemed to go on pretty much in the same way."
"But you got married, and your wife died?"
"Yes--I got married, and she died."
"What was your wife's name?"
"Her name was Jenkins; she was the daughter of the saddler that lived
next door."
"Couldn't her friends have helped you?"
"After she died they had nothing more to do with me."
"And you really cannot tell me any more?"
"No--how can I? What more is there to tell? It's all alike."
The old pauper was called away, and went shuffling along to the door,
leaving Zachariah to his meditations.
Another day passed, and he was lying half asleep when a visitor was
announced, and close upon the announcement stood before him--who
should it be?--no other than Mrs. Carter, out of breath, radiant,
healthy, impetuous.
"God bless the poor dear man!" she burst out; "to think of finding
you here, and not to have told us before. But I suppose you
couldn't. Directly as I got your letter off I came, and here I am,
you see."
Her presence was like the south-west wind and sunlight after long
north-easterly gloom and frost.
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