66

fallen she was, but deep in her heart lay her mother's love; she could starve, if she could only keep her boy with her to the last. When Jim came home that night he made anxious inquiries after Kitty and her children; "for, wife," said he, "I feel we haven't done our duty in not seeing to those poor creatures before; they've been a fortnight under this roof, and we've never gone over the threshold of the door to ask them how they were." Why you see, Jim," answered Mary, "she always went out so quietly, that I never knew when she went; and the children I think must have gone with her, for we never heard them about, and never should, if she had not locked them in that wet day. Nelly told me that the reason they were locked up was because it was wet, and she lost one of her shoes the day before. The little creatures you see, Jim, go and sit in the churchyard under one of the trees, or get into the sun to warm themselves; and the policeman came along the other day and ordered them off, and Nelly was so frightened, that she caught up Charley and ran off as fast as her legs could carry her, and dropped one of her old shoes, poor child! and then Mrs. Carroll was angry and locked them up."

Such was indeed the case. Nelly, with her little brother, spent most of her days in the old churchyard, or by the side of the river watching the ships come up; trusting to the charity of strangers for a copper or two, to buy them a roll to stay their hungry stomachs until their mother returned from work. Anything was better to the lonely children than being shut up in the miserable garret, where they could neither hear nor see anything; and the greatest punishment Kitty could inflict upon them was to lock them in when she went out. Kitty was not an unkind parent, but want and sickness rendered her fretful and careless; she was scarcely able to drag her weary limbs backwards and forwards to the pottery, and but for the children she would have long since given up work, leaving herself to whatever might befall her; but she toiled on just able to get food for them, nothing more; lately she had applied for relief from the parish, and obtained a shilling a week and a loaf for each child; and with that assistance she might have done better, had not her increasing weakness every day rendered her less able to exert herself when at the pottery; and her earnings became consequently less and less.

That night, as Kitty lay tossing about on the bed (so kindly lent by Mary), torn to pieces with her cough, and

racked with pain, the thought flashed through her brain, "If there should be a God, and if I have really a soul, what will become of me?" and like an indistinct dream rose up in her mind the remembrance of an old woman at the Union, who had care of the little ones (of whom she was one), and a long forgotten prayer she used to teach them, and she thought she would try and recollect it. Folding her thin worn hands as she had done in by-gone years, she began in a low but audible voice, “Our Father,' " which art in heaven," murmured Nelly half asleep, catching the sound of her mother's voice and remembering the words Mary Edmonds had been teaching her again that day; for Mary had had Charley and Nelly both with her, and had been endeavouring to teach them the little prayer. Kitty bent over the child, but her lips were silent. How could the child have learned those words? she had never taught them her, and yet they were the ones she used to say herself. Again she whispered "Our Father which art in heaven," but memory failed her there; in vain she strove to bring back the long-forgotten words, they would not be recalled; but clinging fast to a new-born hope springing up in her soul, she kept repeating-"Our Father which art in heaven," until she fell asleep.

Week after week passed by, and Kitty Carroll continued to drag her weary limbs to and from the works, but it was evident that she must cease to do so ere long. Her companions and associates at the pottery began to look with pity on her, and many a little kindness was shown to her by them now that the cold weather was setting in, the warmest corner was reserved for her, and often at dinner time, those who did not return home for that meal would thrust upon her their nicest bit, or make her take a draught from their warm tea or coffee can. And Kitty was changed too. No longer violent and overbearing, ready to quarrel at every remark, and take offence at every jest, she sat silent and subdued, thanking the women rather by looks than words. Mary Edmonds was also unremitting in her thoughtful kindnesses for the sick woman; she washed the children, mended their clothing, tidied up the garret, and strove to teach Nelly how to clean and work. She would have said, it was but little she could do; but real life is made up of little things, and in faithfully performing the small matters of life large effects are attained. Mary, by her gentle unsought works of love, had imperceptibly led Kitty

Carroll to reflect, not only on the past, but what might be hidden in the future. Hitherto the unhappy woman had endeavoured to drive away thought and care; and when she could not do so with her foolish companions, in jesting or quarrelling, she had tried to deaden or drown her feelings with gin and other stimulants. Had Mary shown the least appearance of superiority in her intercourse with Kitty, Kitty's temper would have flamed up, and the good that Mary desired to do for her and hers would have been unattained: it was the spirit in which Mary Edmonds acted that told upon Kitty. The look of sympathy, the gentle word, the tender action, all wrought upon the rebellious soul of Kitty Carroll, and led her to search out Mary's motives in showing such great kindness to her children and herself; and at length when she could no longer suppress her wonder, and when she asked Mary, what could make her take such interest in them? what was her astonishment to hear Mary say, that it was because Jim read from God's word that all His servants were to do unto all men as they would be done unto: "And you know," said the little woman, her rosy face growing rosier as she spoke, "you know, neighbour, if my Jim were gone and I were left like you, I should hope that somebody would do the same by me; and I know you would be sure to, Mrs. Carroll."

After that conversation, Kitty's thoughts constantly turned upon that wonderful book which could produce such wondrous effects; she had heard it read years ago in church, but she had long given up going to any place of worship; and, except when she was married, she had not been to church since she was a girl, living without God and without Christ in the world. She had gradually sunk lower and lower, until she was as Mary found her, without hope either for time or eternity. But Mary's unfeigned kindness had awakened new feelings in her breast, it had brought back long forgotten remembrances, it had aroused long slumbering recollections, and with them bitter remorse as she thought of the past. In the long dark hours of night, when sleep fled her eyelids and memory pictured her life as it was, and then what it might have been, the wretched woman in agony of soul prayed to that God in whose very existence she had tried to disbelieve. But it was all dreary and hopeless with her. Mary's God she knew must be a good and holy Being, or he could not work such works of wonder in his servants; and she was all vile and full of sin :

how could he hear her prayer? Mary was full of love and kindness, he could and would hear and teach such as she. With such thoughts as these uppermost in her mind, Kitty one evening paused at the threshold of the Edmonds' door. She had been out to get a candle and a bit of bread, and as she repassed the room, she heard Jim reading; surely, thought the unhappy woman, 'tis no harm to listen, especially if he's reading from the good book; and leaning against the door-sill she heard distinctly-" But God commendeth his love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us." Her poor heart beat violently as the precious text fell on her ears. She was a sinner, a great sinner; could Christ have died for her? she asked herself: and trying to still her throbbing heart, she bent forward to catch every word as it fell from Jim's lips. Trembling with fear, lest one of the lodgers should find her where she was, she sank upon her knees when Jim and Mary knelt for prayer. Her lips formed the words though no sound escaped them. As they repeated the old familiar petition she had learned when a little child, even the Lord's prayer, every sentence returned fresh upon her memory, and it appeared but as yesterday since she had uttered them. Night after night did Kitty creep down and listen to Jim's reading and prayer. She had never seen Jim, or she would have summoned up courage to have asked to join them; so she stood outside the door, fearing every moment that she should be seen, or that her cough would betray her to the inmates of the little room. But one night, about a week after her first listening, her cough could not be checked, and Mary hearing her, as she thought, on the stairs, went out and brought her in. Then with tears and sobs she told them why she was there, and how many nights she had stood outside their room to hear Jim read. "And you were afraid of me," cried Jim, "only think of that, wife!" and Jim rubbed his hands and laughed at the idea of any one being afraid of him. Mary stirred up her fire and made Kitty sit down in her own arm chair, begging her to draw up close and have a good warm; Kitty heeded not her kind wishes, but turning towards Jim, said earnestly, “Mr. Edmonds, I'm a dying woman; does that book," and she pointed towards the open Bible, "hold any words for such as I am ?" Yes, yes!" cried Jim; and opening at the 11th chapter of Matthew, he read-" Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." "I

66

guess, neighbour," said Jim, "those words are just what

you want.'

"Yes," replied Kitty, thoughtfully, "I am heavy laden with sin and sorrow, and I do want to rest; yet somehow there's no rest for such as I am."

"Have you ever tried Jesus?" inquired John; “He says, Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out.' I was a wicked sinner once, and I thought 'twas no good to try, for the good Lord couldn't have meant those words for me, and so I told our parson; and he said, 'Jim, do you think I should tell you one thing and mean another?' and I said, 'No, sir.' Then he said, 'And can you think that the Lord Jesus would tell you to come to him, and not mean to help you? You just try;' and he turned on his heel and went out. And, missus, I did try. I cried out, God be merciful to me a sinner!' and he heard my prayer and had mercy on me, and here I am to praise and bless his holy name.'

"It's all true, every word of it," cried Mary. "Jim couldn't hold up his head for a long time after Charley died; he took on so, because he thought he should never see Charley any more, for he knew Charley was gone to heaven, and he felt that heaven was not for such as he; and our parson came (bless him), and he said, Jim, your darling boy could only enter heaven through the blood of Jesus, and the blood that saved him can save you; for the blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth from all sin.'" Kitty gazed from one to the other as they spoke; she drank in their words as if she were perishing from thirst, and truly was she thirsting after the water of life—perishing before them for lack of knowledge.

Jim and Mary knew that it was the eleventh hour with her, but they knew and trusted in Him who saved the dying thief at that very hour; and with that knowledge and that trust, they poured into her ears the glad tidings of salvation for all who come unto God through his Son.

TRACTS AND THEIR TRACES.

A SEA of attentive upturned faces were around an earnest speaker. It was late in the evening of a quiet sabbath; and the man who was addressing that crowd in the open air, had been often moved to speak of Jesus to the multitudes who frequented that breezy down on summer sabbath