‘Henry, Henry, Henry Halywin, Eskeuer!  An’ I tookt ’im for a copper in plain clothes all the while!  Henry, Henry, Henry Halywin, Eskeuer!  I shall die a-larfin’, I know I shall!  I shall die a-larfin’, I know I shall!  Poll! don’t you mind me a-tellin’ you about my pore darter Winifred—­for my darter she was, as I’ll swear afore all the beaks in London—­don’t you mind me a-sayin’ that if she wouldn’t talk when she wur awake, she could mag away fast enough when she wur asleep; an’ it were allus the same mag about dear little Henry, an’ dear Henry Halywin as couldn’t git up the gangways without ’er.  Well, pore dear Henry was ‘er sweet’airt, an’ this is the chap, an’ if my eyes ain’t stun blind, the werry chap out o’ the cussed studeros as killed ‘er, pore dear, an’ as is a-skearin’ me away from my beautiful ’um in Primrose Court; an’ ‘ere wur I a-talkin’ to ’im all of a muck sweat, thinkin’ he wur a copper in plain clothes!’

At this moment Sinfi entered the room.  She came up to me, and laying her hand upon my shoulder she said:  ’Come away, brother, this is cruel hard for you to bear.  It’s our poor sister Winifred as is dead, and it ain’t nobody else.’

The effect of Sinfi’s appearance and of her words upon the woman was like that of an electric shock.  She sat up in her bed open-mouthed, staring from Sinfi to me, and from me to Sinfi.

‘So my darter Winifred’s your sister now, is she?’ (turning to me).  ‘A few minutes ago she was your sweet’airt:  an’ now she seems to ha’ bin your sister.  An’ she was your sister, too, was she?’ (turning to Sinfi).  ’Well, all I know is, that she was my darter, Winifred Gudgeon, as is dead, an’ buried in the New North Cemetery, pore dear; an’ yet she was sister to both on ye!’

She then buried her face again in the pillows and resumed the rocking movement, shrieking between her peals of laughter:  ’Well, if I’m the mother of a six-fut Gypsy gal an’ a black-eyed chap as seems jest atween a Gypsy and a Christian, I never knowed that afore.  No, I never knowed that afore!  I allus said I should die a-larfin’, an’ so I shall; I’m a-dyin’ now—­ha! ha! ha!’

She fell back upon the pillow, exhausted by her own cruel merriment.

‘She always said she’d die a-larfin’, an’ she will, too—­more nor I shall ever do,’ said the girl, after we had gone downstairs.

‘Did you notice what she said about Winnie a-callin’ her Knocker?’ said Sinfi.

‘Yes, and couldn’t understand it.’

’I know what it meant.  Winnie knowed all about the Knockers of Snowdon, the dwarfs o’ the copper mine, and this woman, bein’ so thick and short, must look ezackly like a Knocker, I should say, if you could see one.’

I said to the girl, ‘Was she really kind to—­to—­’