At two o'clock, in a dreadful paroxysm, he died.
Mrs.Morel sat perfectly still for an hour in the lodging bedroom; then she roused the household.
At six o'clock, with the aid of the charwoman, she laid him out; then she went round the dreary London village to the registrar and the doctor.
At nine o'clock to the cottage on Scargill Street came another wire: "William died last night.

Let father come, bring money." Annie, Paul, and Arthur were at home; Mr.Morel was gone to work.

The three children said not a word.

Annie began to whimper with fear; Paul set off for his father.
It was a beautiful day.

At Brinsley pit the white steam melted slowly in the sunshine of a soft blue sky; the wheels of the headstocks twinkled high up; the screen, shuffling its coal into the trucks, made a busy noise.
"I want my father; he's got to go to London," said the boy to the first man he met on the bank.
"Tha wants Walter Morel?
Go in theer an' tell Joe Ward." Paul went into the little top office.
"I want my father; he's got to go to London." "Thy feyther?
Is he down?
What's his name ?" "Mr.Morel." "What, Walter?
Is owt amiss ?" "He's got to go to London." The man went to the telephone and rang up the bottom office.
"Walter Morel's wanted, number 42, Hard.