We set out together to Walker's Court, in Friargate.

The first place we entered was at the top of the little narrow court.

There we found a good-tempered Irish-woman sitting without fire, in her feverish hovel.

"Well, missis," said the visitor, "how is your husband getting on ?" "Ah, well, now, Mr.T----," replied she, "you know, he's only a delicate little man, an' a tailor; an' he wint to work on the moor, an' he couldn't stand it.

Sure, it was draggin' the bare life out of him.