Poor child! the cause was in her tottering feet.
Towards the afternoon, her grandfather complained bitterly of hunger.
She approached one of the wretched hovels by the way-side, and knocked with her hand upon the door.
'What would you have here ?' said a gaunt man, opening it.
'Charity.

A morsel of bread.' 'Do you see that ?' returned the man hoarsely, pointing to a kind of bundle on the ground.

'That's a dead child.

I and five hundred other men were thrown out of work, three months ago.

That is my third dead child, and last.