I found that it was the house of a widower, a weaver of diaper, who was left with a family of eight children to look after.

Two little girls were in the house, and they were humbly but cleanly clad.

One of them called her father up from the cellar, where he was working at his looms.

He was a mild, thoughtful-looking man, something past middle age.

I could not help admiring him as he stood in the middle of the floor with his unsleeved arms folded, uttering quiet jets of simple speech to my friend, who had known him before.