of work they possessed nothing, had nothing to
look forward to save more work. And they were
contented. They expected nothing else, desired
nothing else.

They lived simply. Their wants were few, a
pint of beer at the end of the day, sipped in the
semi-subterranean kitchen, a weekly paper to pore
over for seven nights handrunning, and conversa
tion as meditative and vacant as the chewing of a
heifer s cud. From a wood engraving on the wall
a slender, angelic girl looked down upon them, and
underneath was the legend: " Our Future Queen."
And from a highly colored lithograph alongside
looked down a stout and elderly lady, with under
neath: " Our Queen Diamond Jubilee."

"What you earn is sweetest," quoth Mrs. Mug-
ridge, when I suggested that it was about time they
took a rest.

"No, an we don t want help," said Thomas
Mugridge, in reply to my question as to whether
the children lent them a hand.

"We ll work till we dry up and blow away,
mother an me," he added; and Mrs. Mugridge
nodded her head in vigorous indorsement.

Fifteen children she had borne, and all were away
and gone, or dead. The baby, however, lived in
Maidstone, and she was twenty-seven. When the
children married they had their hands full with

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