should be heard without; and when Mr. Bumble had scrupulously examined the coins to see that they were genuine, and put them up with much satisfaction in his waistcoat-pocket, he went on.
"Carry your memory back—let me see—twelve years last winter."
"It's a long time," said Mr. Bumble. "Very good. I've done it."
"The scene the workhouse."
"Good!"
"And the time night."
"Yes."
"And the place the crazy hole, wherever it was, in which miserable drabs brought forth the life and health so often denied to themselves—gave birth to puling children for the parish to rear, and hid their shame, rot 'em, in the grave."
"The lying-in room, I suppose that means?" said Mr. Bumble, not quite following the stranger's excited description.
"Yes," said the stranger. "A boy was born there."
