Number Three, Winifred Place by Agnes Giberne

"I DON'T think, for my part, there ever 'was' a woman so badly off as me; and I don't care who hears me say it neither," Mrs. Burrell declared in aggrieved tones, while her solemn eyes looked more solemn, her long thin nose seemed longer and thinner, and the drooping mouth-corners hung lower than ever before. "It's no manner of use telling me other people have troubles too. Of course they have; and what then? I suppose I know about other people as well as you do, for the matter of that. Besides, other people don't lose their husbands, and have their houses burnt down, and their children's legs broken, and everything lost, all of a slap, as one may say. No; it is no use your telling me other people are as badly off as me, for I don't believe it."

Neil Burrell had not made the remark imputed to him by his distressed aunt, though doubtless he had intended to bring it forth, and probably she read it in his face. A telegram from Mrs. Burrell had brought him to London the second day after the fire. He found his aunt still domiciled under the roof of the hospitable groceress who had first received her, dressed in borrowed clothes, and in a condition of greater depression over her losses than of thankfulness over her safety. Neil had paid a visit of inspection to the melancholy ruins of "Number Three," and now sat to condole with his aunt.