Polly clung to Richard's arm, trembling at the rude voices, the laughter, the brawling, that issued from the grog-shops; at the continual apparition of rough, bearded men.

One of these, who held a candle stuck in a bottle, was accosted by Richard and soundly rated.
When they turned out of the street with its few dismal oil-lamps, their way led them among dirty tents and black pits, and they had to depend for light on the lantern they carried.

They crossed a rickety little bridge over a flooded river; then climbed a slope, on which in her bunchy silk skirts Polly slipped and floundered, to stop before something that was half a tent and half a log-hut .-- What! this the end of the long, long journey! This the house she had to live in?
Yes, Richard was speaking.

"Welcome home, little wife! Not much of a place, you see, but the best I can give you." "It's ...

it's very nice, Richard," said Polly staunchly; but her lips trembled.
Warding off the attack of a big, fierce, dirty dog, which sprang at her, dragging its paws down her dress, Polly waited while her husband undid the door, then followed him through a chaos, which smelt as she had never believed any roofed-in place could smell, to a little room at the back.
Mahony lighted the lamp that stood ready on the table, and threw a satisfied glance round.