So like a godsend. What doth the Book say
About ' the lions, roaring, seek their prey'?
And ' the young ravens'? ' Ye are more than these.'
Ah, but one starves, though!"
                                           Crouch'd upon her knees,
She dragg'd herself up close against the wall,
And counted the gold pieces.
                                               " Food for all?
Us four? And that makes five. The rent to pay
Tomorrow? Give me strength, dear God, to pray
' Thy will be done'! . . . What if it were God's will
That one should keep it, ... since one finds it? Still
Have bread to eat? ... till one can work, of course.
Why else should God have sent it? Which is worse,
To starve, or ... 'Tis as long as it is broad.

"And then, consider this, I pray, dear God!
Two little mouths already—and no bread.
And my poor man this three days sick in bed;
And no more needlework, it seems, for me
'Till times turn round. Who knows when that will be?
Dear God, consider yet again .... That's four
To feed already. Then a fifth? One more! . . .
However can we eke it out? Ah, me,
God's creatures to be left like this! Just see
How thin she is!"

                                Her hands about the thing
They clutch'd began to twitch. Still fingering
The gold convulsively, again she thought,
Or tried to think, of lessons early taught,
Easy to learn once, in the village school,
When to be honest seem'd the simple rule
For being happy, and of many a text
That task'd old Sundays; growing more perplext,
As, more and more, her giddy memory made
Haphazard catches at the words.

                                                    "Who said,
' Therefore I say unto you ' (ah! 'twere sweet),
' Have no thought for your lives, what ye shall eat'
(If that were possible), ' nor what to wear.'
Have no thought? that should mean, then, have no care!
' Your Father knoweth of what things ye need
Before ye ask.' . . . ' The morrow shall take heed
For its own things.' . . . And still 'tis sure He bade
The people pray, ' Give us our daily bread';
And elsewhere, ' Ask, and ye shall have'! And yet
One starves, I say.
                           " Ay! ' They that have shall get,'
That's somewhere too, and nearer fact, no doubt.
If the rich knew what the poor go without
Sometimes! They do their best for us, that's sure.
But still, the poor .... they are so very poor!
'Whoever giveth to the least of these
Giveth to me.' Why one can give with ease
What is one's own .... when anything's one's own,
Ha! whose is this? There is no owner known.
God sent it here. Whose is it now?"

                                                She stopp'd
And trembled. And the tempting treasure dropp'd
From her faint hand.
                                    She scratch'd it up again,
And cried, " Mine, mine! be it the devil's gain
Or God's good gift. Sure, what folks must, folks may,
And folks must live."

                                     She gazed out every way
Along the gloomy street. In desert land,
To tempted saints mankind was more at hand
Than now it seem'd to this poor spirit pent
In populous city.

VII.

                                                Hurriedly she bent
Above her grim companion, in whose ear
She mutter'd hoarse and quick, " Make haste! see here!
There's bread enough for all of us. Get up!
Quick, quick; and come away. Tonight we'll sup,—-
Tomorrow we'll not starve .... another day,
Another .... and then, let come what come may.
Off! off!"

                   No answer.
                                         To the stolid sky
The stolid face was turn'd immovably.
The sky was dark: the face was dark. The face
And sky were silent both; you could not trace
The faintest gleam of light in the dark look
Of either.
                   Vehemently the woman shook
That miserable mass of rags. It let
Itself be shaken; did not strive to get
Up or away; said nought. A worried rat
So lets itself be shaken by a cat
Or mastiff, when the vermin's back, 'tis clear,
Is snapp'd, and there's no more to feel or fear.
"Oh, haste!"

                No answer.
                                  " It is late, late! Come!"
No answer.
                  Those lean jaws were lock'd and dumb.
Then o'er the living woman's face there spread
Death's hue reflected.
                             " Late? too late!" she said.
"Heaven, to die thus!"
                                        With a broken wail,
She turn'd and fled fast, fast.
                                             Fled whither?

VIII.

                                                         Pale
Through the thick vagueness of the vaporous night,
From the dark alley, with a clouded light
Two rheumy, melancholy lampions flare.
They are the eyes of the police.
                                                   In there,
Down the dark archway, through the greasy door,
Passionately pushing past the three or four
Complacent constables that cluster'd round
A costermonger, in the gutter found
Incapably, but combatively, drunk,
The woman hurried. Through the doorway slunk
A peaky, pinch'd-up child with frighten'd face,
Important witness in some murder-case
About to come before the magistrate
Tomorrow. At a dingy table sat
The slim inspector, spectacled, severe,
Rapidly writing.
                              In a sort of fear
Of seeing it again, she shut her eyes
And flung it down there. With sedate surprise
The man look'd up.