When that lamp in
the window opposite was put out and the house in darkness, she would
know that it was safe for her to creep up the stairs and into the bed in
the kitchen which she shared with the baby brother now sleeping in her
arms.
Seating herself upon a doorstep she was passing, Jane shifted the baby
to a more comfortable position and leaned her head against the rough
woodwork of the tenement house. How tired, she was, how very tired! Her
head ached, her back ached, she ached all over. Day after day, she
worked in the factory from early morning until nightfall. Night after
night, she walked the street with Richard in her arms, not daring to
enter the house until father was safely sleeping. Of course it did not
happen every night. Just once in a while father would come home sober
and then there was no fear of harm to the baby or herself. Many a night,
too, he did not come home at all, but on those occasions she and mother
scarce dared to close an eye. They knew not at what moment he might
return, possibly in even an uglier mood than usual. Mother was never
afraid for herself. She could usually manage him, although there had
been times when bad cuts and bruises bore testimony to the treatment to
which she had been subjected. For Jane and little Richard, their only
chance lay in keeping out of the way, so Jane would tramp the street,
Richard in her arms, despite aches and pains and weariness.
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