"Yes," continued the speaker, "the whole world is enthusiastic when the key-note of each individual, or class of individuals, is struck; and shall we be ashamed of our enthusiasm for this little bit of heavenly blue, which symbolises the great fact that those who wear it are racing with the demon Drink to save men and women, (ourselves included, perhaps), from his clutches; racing with Despair to place Hope before the eyes of those who are blindly rushing to destruction; racing with Time to snatch the young out of the way of the Destroyer before he lays hand on them; and singing—ay, shouting—songs of triumph and glory to God because of the tens of thousands of souls and bodies already saved; because of the bright prospect of the tens of thousands more to follow; because of the innumerable voices added to the celestial choir, and the glad assurance that the hymns of praise thus begun shall not die out with our feeble frames, but will grow stronger in sweetness as they diminish in volume, until, the river crossed, they shall burst forth again with indescribable intensity in the New Song.

"Some people tell us that these things are not true. Others say they won't last. My friends, I know, and many of you know, that they are true, and even if they were not to last, have we not even now ground for praise? Shall we not rejoice that the lifeboat has saved some, because others have refused to embark and perished? But we don't admit that these things won't last. Very likely, in the apostolic days, some of the unbelievers said of them and their creed, 'How long will it last?' If these objectors be now able to take note of the world's doings, they have their answer from Father Time himself; for does he not say, 'Christianity has lasted nearly nineteen hundred years, and is the strongest moral motive-power in the world to-day?' The Blue Ribbon, my friends, or what it represents, is founded on Christianity; therefore the principles which it represents are sure to stand. Who will come now and put it on?"

"I will!" shouted a strong voice from among the audience, and up rose the powerful man who began the evening with "bah!" and "pooh!" He soon made his way to the platform amid uproarious cheering, and donned the blue.

"Hetty," whispered Mrs Frog in a low, timid voice, "I think I would like to put it on too."

If the voice had been much lower and more timid, Hetty would have heard it, for she sat there watching for her mother as one might watch for a parent in the crisis of a dread disease. She knew that no power on earth can change the will, and she had waited and prayed till the arrow was sent home by the hand of God.

"Come along, mother," she said—but said no more, for her heart was too full.

Mrs Frog was led to the platform, to which multitudes of men, women, and children were pressing, and the little badge was pinned to her breast.

Thus did that poor woman begin her Christian course with the fruit of self-denial.

She then set about the work of putting her house in order. It was up-hill work at first, and very hard, but the promise did not fail her, "Lo! I am with you alway." In all her walk she found Hetty a guardian angel.

"I must work, Hetty, dear," she said, "for it will never do to make you support us all; but what am I to do with baby? There is no one to take charge of her when I go out."

"I am quite able to keep the whole of us, mother, seeing that I get such good pay from the lady I work for, but as you want to work, I can easily manage for baby. You know I've often wished to speak of the Infant Nursery in George Yard. Before you sent Matty away I wanted you to send her there, but—" Hetty paused.

"Go on, dear. I was mad agin' you an' your religious ways; wasn't that it?" said Mrs Frog.

"Well, mother, it don't matter now, thank God. The Infant Nursery, you know, is a part of the Institution there. The hearts of the people who manage it were touched by the death of so many thousands of little ones every year in London through want and neglect, so they set up this nursery to enable poor widowed mothers and others to send their babies to be cared for—nursed, fed, and amused in nice airy rooms—while the mothers are at work. They charge only fourpence a day for this, and each baby has its own bag of clothing, brush and comb, towel and cot. They will keep Matty from half-past seven in the morning till eight at night for you, so that will give you plenty of time to work, won't it, mother?"

"It will indeed, Hetty, and all for fourpence a day, say you?"

"Yes, the ordinary charge is fourpence, but widows get it for twopence for each child, and, perhaps, they may regard a deserted wife as a widow! There is a fine of twopence per hour for any child not taken away after eight, so you'll have to be up to time, mother."

Mrs Frog acted on this advice, and thus was enabled to earn a sufficiency to enable her to pay her daily rent, to clothe and feed herself and child, to give a little to the various missions undertaken by the Institutions near her, to put a little now and then into the farthing bank, and even to give a little in charity to the poor!

Now, reader, you may have forgotten it, but if you turn back to near the beginning of this chapter, you will perceive that all we have been writing about is a huge digression, for which we refuse to make the usual apology.

We return again to Mrs Frog where we left her, sitting beside her cheerful fire, sewing and conversing with Hetty.

"I can't bear to think of 'im, Hetty," said Mrs Frog. "You an' me sittin' here so comfortable, with as much to eat as we want, an' to spare, while your poor father is in a cold cell. He's bin pretty bad to me of late, it's true, wi' that drink, but he wasn't always like that, Hetty; even you can remember him before he took to the drink."

"Yes, mother, I can, and, bless the Lord, he may yet be better than he ever was. When is his time up?"

"This day three weeks. The twelve months will be out then. We must pray for 'im, Hetty."

"Yes, mother. I am always prayin' for him. You know that."

There was a touch of anxiety in the tones and faces of both mother and daughter as they talked of the father, for his home-coming might, perhaps, nay probably would, be attended with serious consequences to the renovated household. They soon changed the subject to one more agreeable.

"Isn't Bobby's letter a nice one, mother?" said Hetty, "and so well written, though the spellin' might have been better; but then he's had so little schoolin'."

"It just makes my heart sing," returned Mrs Frog. "Read it again to me, Hetty. I'll never tire o' hearin' it. I only wish it was longer."

The poor mother's wish was not unnatural, for the letter which Bobby had written was not calculated to tax the reader's patience, and, as Hetty hinted, there was room for improvement, not only in the spelling but in the writing. Nevertheless, it had carried great joy to the mother's heart. We shall therefore give it verbatim et literatim.

Brankly Farm—Kanada.

"Deer Mutrer. wen i left you i promisd to rite so heer gos. this Plase is eaven upon arth. so pritty an grand. O you never did see the likes. ide park is nuffin to it, an as for Kensintn gardings—wy to kompair thems rediklis. theres sitch a nice little gal here. shes wun of deer mis mukfersons gals—wot the vestenders calls a wafe and sometimes a strai. were all very fond of er spesially tim lumpy. i shuvd im in the river wun dai. my—ow e spluterd. but e was non the wus—all the better, mister an mistress meryboi aint that a joly naim are as good as gold to us. we as prairs nite and mornin an no end o witls an as appy as kings and kueens a-sitin on there throns. give all our luv to deer father, an etty an baiby an mis mukferson an mister olland an all our deer teechers. sai we'll never forgit wot they told us. your deer sun Bobby."

"Isn't it beautiful?" said Mrs Frog, wiping away a tear with the sock she was darning in preparation for her husband's return.

"Yes, mother. Bless the people that sent 'im out to Canada," said Hetty, "for he would never have got on here."

There came a tap to the door as she spoke, and Mrs Twitter, entering, was received with a hearty welcome.

"I came, Mrs Frog," she said, accepting the chair—for there was even a third chair—which Hetty placed for her, "to ask when your husband will be home again."

Good Mrs Twitter carefully avoided the risk of hurting the poor woman's feelings by needless reference to jail.

"I expect him this day three weeks, ma'am," replied Mrs Frog.

"That will do nicely," returned Mrs Twitter. "You see, my husband knows a gentleman who takes great pleasure in getting con—in getting men like Ned, you know, into places, and giving them a chance of—of getting on in life, you understand?"

"Yes, ma'am, we must all try to git on in life if we would keep in life," said Mrs Frog, sadly.

"Well, there is a situation open just now, which the gentleman—the same gentleman who was so kind in helping us after the fire; you see we all need help of one another, Mrs Frog—which the gentleman said he could keep open for a month, but not longer, so, as I happened to be passing your house to-night on my way to the Yard, to the mothers' meeting, I thought I'd just look in and tell you, and ask you to be sure and send Ned to me the moment he comes home."

"I will, ma'am, and God bless you for thinkin' of us so much."

"Remember, now," said Mrs Twitter, impressively, "before he has time to meet any of his old comrades. Tell him if he comes straight to me he will hear something that will please him very much. I won't tell you what. That is my message to him. And now, how is my Mita? Oh! I need not ask. There she lies like a little angel!" (Mrs Twitter rose and went to the crib, but did not disturb the little sleeper.) "I wish I saw roses on her little cheeks and more fat, Mrs Frog."

Mrs Frog admitted that there was possible improvement in the direction of roses and fat, but feared that the air, (it would have been more correct to have said the smoke and smells), of the court went against roses and fat, somehow. She was thankful, however, to the good Lord for the health they all enjoyed in spite of local disadvantages.

"Ah!" sighed Mrs Twitter, "if we could only transport you all to Canada—"

"Oh! ma'am," exclaimed Mrs Frog, brightening up suddenly, "we've had such a nice letter from our Bobby. Let her see it, Hetty."

"Yes, and so nicely written, too," remarked Hetty, with a beaming face, as she handed Bobby's production to the visitor, "though he doesn't quite understand yet the need for capital letters."

"Never mind, Hetty, so long as he sends you capital letters," returned Mrs Twitter, perpetrating the first pun she had been guilty of since she was a baby; "and, truly, this is a charming letter, though short."

"Yes, it's rather short, but it might have been shorter," said Mrs Frog, indulging in a truism.

Mrs Twitter was already late for the mothers' meeting, but she felt at once that it would be better to be still later than to disappoint Mrs Frog of a little sympathy in a matter which touched her feelings so deeply. She sat down, therefore, and read the letter over, slowly, commenting on it as she went along in a pleasant sort of way, which impressed the anxious mother with, not quite the belief, but the sensation that Bobby was the most hopeful immigrant which Canada had received since it was discovered.

"Now, mind, send Ned up at once," said the amiable lady when about to quit the little room.

"Yes, Mrs Twitter, I will; good-night."



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

NED FROG'S EXPERIENCES AND SAMMY TWITTER'S WOES.

But Ned Frog, with strong drink combined, rendered fruitless all the efforts that were put forth in his behalf at that time.

When discharged with a lot of other jail-birds, none of whom, however, he knew, he sauntered leisurely homeward, wondering whether his wife was alive, and, if so, in what condition he should find her.

It may have been that better thoughts were struggling in his breast for ascendency, because he sighed deeply once or twice, which was not a usual mode with Ned of expressing his feelings. A growl was more common and more natural, considering his character.

Drawing nearer and nearer to his old haunts, yet taking a roundabout road, as the moth is drawn to the candle, or as water descends to its level, he went slowly on, having little hope of comfort in his home, and not knowing very well what to do.

As he passed down one of the less frequented streets leading into Whitechapel, he was arrested by the sight of a purse lying on the pavement. To become suddenly alive, pick it up, glance stealthily round, and thrust it into his pocket, was the work of an instant. The saunter was changed into a steady businesslike walk. As he turned into Commercial Street, Ned met Number 666 full in the face. He knew that constable intimately, but refrained from taking notice of him, and passed on with an air and expression which were meant to convey the idea of infantine innocence. Guilty men usually over-reach themselves. Giles noted the air, and suspected guilt, but, not being in a position to prove it, walked gravely on, with his stern eyes straight to the front.

In a retired spot Ned examined his "find." It contained six sovereigns, four shillings, threepence, a metropolitan railway return ticket, several cuttings from newspapers, and a recipe for the concoction of a cheap and wholesome pudding, along with a card bearing the name of Mrs Samuel Twitter, written in ink and without any address.

"You're in luck, Ned," he remarked to himself, as he examined these treasures. "Now, old boy you 'aven't stole this 'ere purse, so you ain't a thief; you don't know w'ere Mrs S.T. lives, so you can't find 'er to return it to 'er. Besides, it's more than likely she won't feel the want of it—w'ereas I feels in want of it wery much indeed. Of course it's my dooty to 'and it over to the p'lice, but, in the first place, I refuse to 'ave any communication wi' the p'lice, friendly or otherwise; in the second place, I 'ad no 'and in makin' the laws, so I don't feel bound to obey 'em; thirdly, I'm both 'ungry an' thirsty, an' 'ere you 'ave the remedy for them afflictions, so, fourthly—'ere goes!"

Having thus cleared his conscience, Ned committed the cash to his vest pocket, and presented the purse with its remaining contents to the rats in a neighbouring sewer.

Almost immediately afterwards he met an Irishman, an old friend.

"Terence, my boy, well met!" he said, offering his hand.

"Hooroo! Ned Frog, sure I thought ye was in limbo!"

"You thought right, Terry; only half-an-hour out. Come along, I'll stand you somethin' for the sake of old times. By the way, have you done that job yet?"

"What job?"

"Why, the dynamite job, of course."

"No, I've gi'n that up," returned the Irishman with a look of contempt. "To tell you the honest truth, I don't believe that the way to right Ireland is to blow up England. But there's an Englishman you'll find at the Swan an' Anchor—a sneakin' blackguard, as would sell his own mother for dhrink—he'll help you if you wants to have a hand in the job. I'm off it."

Notwithstanding this want of sympathy on that point, the two friends found that they held enough in common to induce a prolonged stay at the public-house, from which Ned finally issued rather late at night, and staggered homewards. He met no acquaintance on the way, and was about to knock at his own door when the sound of a voice within arrested him.

It was Hetty, praying. The poor wife and daughter had given up hope of his returning at so late an hour that night, and had betaken themselves to their usual refuge in distress. Ned knew the sound well, and it seemed to rouse a demon in his breast, for he raised his foot with the intention of driving in the door, when he was again arrested by another sound.

It was the voice of little Matty, who, awaking suddenly out of a terrifying dream, set up a shrieking which at once drowned all other sounds.

Ned lowered his foot, thrust his hands into his pockets, and stood gazing in a state of indecision at the broken pavement for a few minutes.

"No peace there," he said, sternly. "Prayin' an' squallin' don't suit me, so good-night to 'ee all."

With that he turned sharp round, and staggered away, resolving never more to return!

"Is that you, Ned Frog?" inquired a squalid, dirty-looking woman, thrusting her head out of a window as he passed.

"No, 'tain't," said Ned, fiercely, as he left the court.

He went straight to a low lodging-house, but before entering tied his money in a bit of rag, and thrust it into an inner pocket of his vest, which he buttoned tight, and fastened his coat over it. Paying the requisite fourpence for the night's lodging, he entered, and was immediately hailed by several men who knew him, but being in no humour for good fellowship, he merely nodded and went straight up to his lowly bed. It was one of seventy beds that occupied the entire floor of an immense room. Police supervision had secured that this room should be well ventilated, and that the bedding should be reasonably clean, though far from clean-looking, and Ned slept soundly in spite of drink, for, as we have said before, he was unusually strong.

Next day, having thought over his plans in bed, and, being a man of strong determination, he went forth to carry them into immediate execution. He went to a lofty tenement in the neighbourhood of Dean and Flower Street, one of the poorest parts of the city, and hired a garret, which was so high up that even the staircase ended before you reached it, and the remainder of the upward flight had to be performed on a ladder, at the top of which was a trap-door, the only entrance to Ned's new home.

Having paid a week's rent in advance he took possession, furnished the apartment with one old chair, one older table, one bundle of straw in a sack, one extremely old blanket, and one brand-new pipe with a corresponding ounce or two of tobacco. Then he locked the trap-door, put the key in his pocket, and descended to the street, where at Bird-fair he provided himself with sundry little cages and a few birds. Having conveyed these with some food for himself and the little birds to his lodging he again descended to the street, and treated himself to a pint of beer.

While thus engaged he was saluted by an old friend, the owner of a low music-hall, who begged for a few minutes' conversation with him outside.

"Ned," he said, "I'm glad I fell in with you, for I'm uncommon 'ard up just now."

"I never lends money," said Ned, brusquely turning away.

"'Old on, Ned, I don't want yer money, bless yer. I wants to give you money."

"Oh! that's quite another story; fire away, old man."

"Well, you see, I'm 'ard up, as I said, for a man to keep order in my place. The last man I 'ad was a good 'un, 'e was. Six futt one in 'is socks, an' as strong as a 'orse, but by ill luck one night, a sailor-chap that was bigger than 'im come in to the 'all, an' they 'ad a row, an' my man got sitch a lickin' that he 'ad to go to hospital, an' 'e's been there for a week, an' won't be out, they say, for a month or more. Now, Ned, will you take the job? The pay's good an' the fun's considerable. So's the fightin', sometimes, but you'd put a stop to that you know. An', then, you'll 'ave all the day to yourself to do as you like."

"I'm your man," said Ned, promptly.

Thus it came to pass that the pugilist obtained suitable employment as a peacemaker and keeper of order, for a time at least, in one of those disreputable places of amusement where the unfortunate poor of London are taught lessons of vice and vanity which end often in vexation of spirit, not only to themselves, but to the strata of society which rest above them.

One night Ned betook himself to this temple of vice, and on the way was struck by the appearance of a man with a barrow—a sort of book-stall on wheels—who was pushing his way through the crowded street. It was the man who at the temperance meeting had begun with "bah!" and "pooh!" and had ended by putting on the Blue Ribbon. He had once been a comrade of Ned Frog, but had become so very respectable that his old chum scarcely recognised him.

"Hallo! Reggie North, can that be you?"

North let down his barrow, wheeled round, and held out his hand with a hearty, "how are 'ee, old man? W'y you're lookin' well, close cropped an' comfortable, eh! Livin' at Her Majesty's expense lately? Where d'ee live now, Ned? I'd like to come and see you."

Ned told his old comrade the locality of his new abode.

"But I say, North, how respectable you are! What's come over you? not become a travellin' bookseller, have you?"

"That's just what I am, Ned."

"Well, there's no accountin' for taste. I hope it pays."

"Ay, pays splendidly—pays the seller of the books and pays the buyers better."

"How's that?" asked Ned, in some surprise, going up to the barrow; "oh! I see, Bibles."

"Yes, Ned, Bibles, the Word of God. Will you buy one?"

"No, thank 'ee," said Ned, drily.

"Here, I'll make you a present o' one, then," returned North, thrusting a Bible into the other's hand; "you can't refuse it of an old comrade. Good-night. I'll look in on you soon."

"You needn't trouble yourself," Ned called out as his friend went off; and he felt half inclined to fling the Bible after him, but checked himself. It was worth money! so he put it in his pocket and went his way.

The hall was very full that night, a new comic singer of great promise having been announced, and oh! it was sad to see the youths of both sexes, little more than big boys and girls, who went there to smoke, and drink, and enjoy ribald songs and indecent jests!

We do not mean to describe the proceedings. Let it suffice to say that, after one or two songs and a dance had been got through, Ned, part of whose duty it was to announce the performances, rose and in a loud voice said—

"Signor Twittorini will now sing."

The Signor stepped forward at once, and was received with a roar of enthusiastic laughter, for anything more lugubrious and woe-begone than the expression of his face had never been seen on these boards before. There was a slight look of shyness about him, too, which increased the absurdity of the thing, and it was all so natural, as one half-tipsy woman remarked.

So it was—intensely natural—for Signor Twittorini was no other than poor Sammy Twitter in the extremest depths of his despair. Half-starved, half-mad, yet ashamed to return to his father's house, the miserable boy had wandered in bye streets, and slept in low lodging-houses as long as his funds lasted. Then he tried to get employment with only partial success, until at last, recollecting that he had been noted among his companions for a sweet voice and a certain power of singing serio-comic songs, he thought of a low music-hall into which he had staggered one evening when drunk—as much with misery as with beer. The manager, on hearing a song or two, at once engaged him and brought him out. As poor Sammy knew nothing about acting, it was decided that he should appear in his own garments, which, being shabby-genteel, were pretty well suited for a great Italian singer in low society.

But Sammy had over-rated his own powers. After the first burst of applause was over, he stood gazing at the audience with his mouth half open, vainly attempting to recollect the song he meant to sing, and making such involuntary contortions with his thin visage, that a renewed burst of laughter broke forth. When it had partially subsided, Sammy once more opened his mouth, gave vent to a gasp, burst into tears, and rushed from the stage.

This was the climax! It brought down the house! Never before had they seen such an actor. He was inimitable, and the people made the usual demand for an encore with tremendous fervour, expecting that Signor Twittorini would repeat the scene, probably with variations, and finish off with the promised song. But poor Sammy did not respond.

"I see,—you can improvise," said the manager, quite pleased, "and I've no objection when it's well done like that; but you'd better go on now, and stick to the programme."

"I can't sing," said Sammy, in passionate despair.

"Come, come, young feller, I don't like actin' off the stage, an' the audience is gittin' impatient."

"But I tell you I can't sing a note," repeated Sam.

"What! D'ye mean to tell me you're not actin'?"

"I wish I was!" cried poor Sam, glancing upward with tearful eyes and clasping his hands.

"Come now. You've joked enough. Go on and do your part," said the puzzled manager.

"But I tell you I'm not joking. I couldn't sing just now if you was to give me ten thousand pounds!"

It might have been the amount of the sum stated, or the tone in which it was stated—we know not—but the truth of what Sam said was borne so forcibly in upon the manager, that he went into a violent passion; sprang at Sam's throat; hustled him towards a back door, and kicked him out into a back lane, where he sat down on an empty packing case, covered his face with his hands, bowed his head on his knees, and wept.

The manager returned on the stage, and, with a calm voice and manner, which proved himself to be a very fair actor, stated that Signor Twittorini had met with a sudden disaster—not a very serious one— which, however, rendered it impossible for him to re-appear just then, but that, if sufficiently recovered, he would appear towards the close of the evening.

This, with a very significant look and gesture from Ned Frog, quieted the audience to the extent at least of inducing them to do nothing worse than howl continuously for ten minutes, after which they allowed the performances to go on, and saved the keeper of order the trouble of knocking down a few of the most unruly.

Ned was the first to quit the hall when all was over. He did so by the back door, and found Sam still sitting on the door-step.

"What's the matter with ye, youngster?" he said, going up to him. "You've made a pretty mess of it to-night."

"I couldn't help it—indeed I couldn't. Perhaps I'll do better next time."

"Better! ha! ha! You couldn't ha' done better—if you'd on'y gone on. But why do ye sit there?"

"Because I've nowhere to go to."

"There's plenty o' common lodgin'-'ouses, ain't there?"

"Yes, but I haven't got a single rap."

"Well, then, ain't there the casual ward? Why don't you go there? You'll git bed and board for nothin' there."

Having put this question, and received no answer, Ned turned away without further remark.

Hardened though Ned was to suffering, there was something in the fallen boy's face that had touched this fallen man. He turned back with a sort of remonstrative growl, and re-entered the back lane, but Signor Twittorini was gone. He had heard the manager's voice, and fled.

A policeman directed him to the nearest casual ward, where the lowest stratum of abject poverty finds its nightly level.

Here he knocked with trembling hand. He was received; he was put in a lukewarm bath and washed; he was fed on gruel and a bit of bread—quite sufficient to allay the cravings of hunger; he was shown to a room in which appeared to be a row of corpses—so dead was the silence—each rolled in a covering of some dark brown substance, and stretched out stiff on a trestle with a canvas bottom. One of the trestles was empty. He was told he might appropriate it.

"Are they dead?" he asked, looking round with a shudder.

"Not quite," replied his jailer, with a short laugh, "but dead-beat most of 'em—tired out, I should say, and disinclined to move."

Sam Twitter fell on the couch, drew the coverlet over him, and became a brown corpse like the rest, while the guardian retired and locked the door to prevent the egress of any who might chance to come to life again.

In the morning Sam had a breakfast similar to the supper; was made to pick oakum for a few hours by way of payment for hospitality, and left with a feeling that he had at last reached the lowest possible depth of degradation.

So he had in that direction, but there are other and varied depths in London—depths of crime and of sickness, as well as of suffering and sorrow!

Aimlessly he wandered about for another day, almost fainting with hunger, but still so ashamed to face his father and mother that he would rather have died than done so.

Some touch of pathos, or gruff tenderness mayhap, in Ned Frog's voice, induced him to return at night to the scene of his discreditable failure, and await the pugilist's coming out. He followed him a short way, and then running forward, said—

"Oh, sir! I'm very low!"

"Hallo! Signor Twittorini again!" said Ned, wheeling round, sternly. "What have I to do with your being low? I've been low enough myself at times, an' nobody helped—"

Ned checked himself, for he knew that what he said was false.

"I think I'm dying," said Sam, leaning against a house for support.

"Well, if you do die, you'll be well out of it all," replied Ned, bitterly. "What's your name?"

"Twitter," replied Sam, forgetting in his woe that he had not intended to reveal his real name.

"Twitter—Twitter. I've heard that name before. Why, yes. Father's name Samuel—eh? Mother alive—got cards with Mrs Samuel Twitter on 'em, an' no address?"

"Yes—yes. How do you come to know?" asked Sam in surprise.

"Never you mind that, youngster, but you come along wi' me. I've got a sort o' right to feed you. Ha! ha! come along."

Sam became frightened at this sudden burst of hilarity, and shrank away, but Ned grasped him by the arm, and led him along with such decision, that resistance he felt would be useless.

In a few minutes he was in Ned's garret eating bread and cheese with ravenous satisfaction.

"Have some beer!" said Ned, filling a pewter pot.

"No—no—no—no!" said Sam, shuddering as he turned his head away.

"Well, youngster," returned Ned, with a slight look of surprise, "please yourself, and here's your health."

He drained the pot to the bottom, after which, dividing his straw into two heaps, and throwing them into two corners, he bade Sam lie down and rest.

The miserable boy was only too glad to do so. He flung himself on the little heap pointed out, and the last thing he remembered seeing before the "sweet restorer" embraced him was the huge form of Ned Frog sitting in his own corner with his back to the wall, the pewter pot at his elbow, and a long clay pipe in his mouth.



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

HOPES REVIVE.

Mr Thomas Balls, butler to Sir Richard Brandon, standing with his legs wide apart and his hands under his coat tails in the servants' hall, delivered himself of the opinion that "things was comin' to a wonderful pass when Sir Richard Brandon would condescend to go visitin' of a low family in Whitechapel."

"But the family is no more low than you are, Mr Balls," objected Jessie Summers, who, being not very high herself, felt that the remark was slightly personal.

"Of course not, my dear," replied Balls, with a paternal smile. "I did not for a moment mean that Mr Samuel Twitter was low in an offensive sense, but in a social sense. Sir Richard, you know, belongs to the hupper ten, an' he 'as not been used to associate with people so much further down in the scale. Whether he's right or whether he's wrong ain't for me to say. I merely remark that, things being as they are, the master 'as come to a wonderful pass."

"It's all along of Miss Diana," said Mrs Screwbury. "That dear child 'as taken the firm belief into her pretty 'ead that all people are equal in the sight of their Maker, and that we should look on each other as brothers and sisters, and you know she can twist Sir Richard round her little finger, and she's taken a great fancy to that Twitter family ever since she's been introduced to them at that 'Ome of Industry by Mr Welland, who used to be a great friend of their poor boy that ran away. And Mrs Twitter goes about the 'Ome, and among the poor so much, and can tell her so many stories about poor people, that she's grown quite fond of her."

"But we ain't all equal, Mrs Screwbury," said the cook, recurring, with some asperity, to a former remark, "an' nothink you or anybody else can ever say will bring me to believe it."

"Quite right, cook," said Balls. "For instance, no one would ever admit that I was as good a cook as you are, or that you was equal to Mrs Screwbury as a nurse, or that any of us could compare with Jessie Summers as a 'ouse-maid, or that I was equal to Sir Richard in the matters of edication, or station, or wealth. No, it is in the more serious matters that concern our souls that we are equal, and I fear that when Death comes, he's not very particular as to who it is he's cuttin' down when he's got the order."

A ring at the bell cut short this learned discourse. "That's for the cab," remarked Mr Balls as he went out.

Now, while these things were taking place at the "West-End," in the "East-End" the Twitters were assembled round the social board enjoying themselves—that is to say, enjoying themselves as much as in the circumstances was possible. For the cloud that Sammy's disappearance had thrown over them was not to be easily or soon removed.

Since the terrible day on which he was lost, a settled expression of melancholy had descended on the once cheery couple, which extended in varying degree down to their youngest. Allusion was never made to the erring one; yet it must not be supposed he was forgotten. On the contrary, Sammy was never out of his parents' thoughts. They prayed for him night and morning aloud, and at all times silently. They also took every possible step to discover their boy's retreat, by means of the ordinary police, as well as detectives whom they employed for the purpose of hunting Sammy up: but all in vain.

It must not be supposed, however, that this private sorrow induced Mrs Twitter selfishly to forget the poor, or intermit her labours among them. She did not for an hour relax her efforts in their behalf at George Yard and at Commercial Street.

At the Twitter social board—which, by the way, was spread in another house not far from that which had been burned—sat not only Mr and Mrs Twitter and all the little Twitters, but also Mrs Loper, who had dropped in just to make inquiries, and Mrs Larrabel, who was anxious to hear what news they had to tell, and Mr Crackaby, who was very sympathetic, and Mr Stickler, who was oracular. Thus the small table was full.

"Mariar, my dear," said Mr Twitter, referring to some remarkable truism which his wife had just uttered, "we must just take things as we find 'em. The world is not goin' to change its course on purpose to please us. Things might be worse, you know, and when the spoke in your wheel is at its lowest there must of necessity be a rise unless it stands still altogether."

"You're right, Mr Twitter. I always said so," remarked Mrs Loper, adopting all these sentiments with a sigh of resignation. "If we did not submit to fortune when it is adverse, why then we'd have to—have to—"

"Succumb to it," suggested Mrs Larrabel, with one of her sweetest smiles.

"No, Mrs Larrabel, I never succumb—from principle I never do so. The last thing that any woman of good feeling ought to do is to succumb. I would bow to it."

"Quite right, ma'am, quite right," said Stickler, who now found time to speak, having finished his first cup of tea and second muffin; "to bow is, to say the least of it, polite and simple, and is always safe, for it commits one to nothing; but then, suppose that Fortune is impolite and refuses to return the bow, what, I ask you, would be the result?"

As Mrs Loper could not form the slightest conception what the result would be, she replied with a weak smile and a request for more sausage.

These remarks, although calculated to enlist the sympathies of Crackaby and excite the mental energies of Twitter, had no effect whatever on those gentlemen, for the latter was deeply depressed, and his friend Crackaby felt for him sincerely. Thus the black sheep remained victorious in argument—which was not always the case.

Poor Twitter! He was indeed at that time utterly crestfallen, for not only had he lost considerably by the fire—his house having been uninsured—but business in the city had gone wrong somehow. A few heavy failures had occurred among speculators, and as these had always a row of minor speculators at their backs, like a row of child's bricks, which only needs the fall of one to insure the downcome of all behind it, there had been a general tumble of speculative bricks, tailing off with a number of unspeculative ones, such as tailors, grocers, butchers, and shopkeepers generally. Mr Twitter was one of the unspeculative unfortunates, but he had not come quite down. He had only been twisted uncomfortably to one side, just as a toy brick is sometimes seen standing up here and there in the midst of surrounding wreck. Mr Twitter was not absolutely ruined. He had only "got into difficulties."

But this was a small matter in his and his good wife's eyes compared with the terrible fall and disappearance of their beloved Sammy. He had always been such a good, obedient boy; and, as his mother said, "so sensitive." It never occurred to Mrs Twitter that this sensitiveness was very much the cause of his fall and disappearance, for the same weakness, or cowardice, that rendered him unable to resist the playful banter of his drinking comrades, prevented him from returning to his family in disgrace.

"You have not yet advertised, I think?" said Crackaby.

"No, not yet," answered Twitter; "we cannot bear to publish it. But we have set several detectives on his track. In fact we expect one of them this very evening; and I shouldn't wonder if that was him," he added, as a loud knock was heard at the door.

"Please, ma'am," said the domestic, "Mr Welland's at the door with another gentleman. 'E says 'e won't come in—'e merely wishes to speak to you for a moment."

"Oh! bid 'em come in, bid 'em come in," said Mrs Twitter in the exuberance of a hospitality which never turned any one away, and utterly regardless of the fact that her parlour was extremely small.

Another moment, and Stephen Welland entered, apologising for the intrusion, and saying that he merely called with Sir Richard Brandon, on their way to the Beehive meeting, to ask if anything had been heard of Sam.

"Come in, and welcome, do," said Mrs Twitter to Sir Richard, whose face had become a not unfamiliar one at the Beehive meetings by that time. "And Miss Diana, too! I'm so glad you've brought her. Sit down, dear. Not so near the door. To be sure there ain't much room anywhere else, but—get out of the way, Stickler."

The black sheep hopped to one side instantly, and Di was accommodated with his chair. Stickler was one of those toadies who worship rank for its own sake. If a lamp-post had been knighted Stickler would have bowed down to it. If an ass had been what he styled "barrow-knighted," he would have lain down and let it walk over him—perhaps would even have solicited a passing kick—certainly would not have resented one.

"Allow me, Sir Richard," he said, with some reference to the knight's hat.

"Hush, Stickler!" said Mrs Twitter.

The black sheep hushed, while the bustling lady took the hat and placed it on the sideboard.

"Your stick, Sir Richard," said Stickler, "permit—"

"Hold your tongue, Stickler," said Mrs Twitter.

The black sheep held his tongue—between his teeth,—and wished that some day he might have the opportunity of punching Mrs Twitter's head, without, if possible, her knowing who did it. Though thus reduced to silence, he cleared his throat in a demonstratively subservient manner and awaited his opportunity.

Sir Richard was about to apologise for the intrusion when another knock was heard at the outer door, and immediately after, the City Missionary, John Seaward, came in. He evidently did not expect to see company, but, after a cordial salutation to every one, said that he had called on his way to the meeting.

"You are heartily welcome. Come in," said Mrs Twitter, looking about for a chair, "come, sit beside me, Mr Seaward, on the stool. You'll not object to a humble seat, I know."

"I am afraid," said Sir Richard, "that the meeting has much to answer for in the way of flooding you with unexpected guests."

"Oh! dear, no, sir, I love unexpected guests—the more unexpected the more I—Molly, dear," (to her eldest girl), "take all the children up-stairs."

Mrs Twitter was beginning to get confused in her excitement, but the last stroke of generalship relieved the threatened block and her anxieties at the same time.

"But what of Sam?" asked young Welland in a low tone; "any news yet?"

"None," said the poor mother, suddenly losing all her vivacity, and looking so pitifully miserable that the sympathetic Di incontinently jumped off her chair, ran up to her, and threw her arms round her neck.

"Dear, darling child," said Mrs Twitter, returning the embrace with interest.

"But I have brought you news," said the missionary, in a quiet voice which produced a general hush.

"News!" echoed Twitter with sudden vehemence. "Oh! Mr Seaward," exclaimed the poor mother, clasping her hands and turning pale.

"Yes," continued Seaward; "as all here seem to be friends, I may tell you that Sam has been heard of at last. He has not, indeed, yet been found, but he has been seen in the company of a man well-known as a rough disorderly character, but who it seems has lately put on the blue ribbon, so we may hope that his influence over Sam will be for good instead of evil."

An expression of intense thankfulness escaped from the poor mother on hearing this, but the father became suddenly much excited, and plied the missionary with innumerable questions, which, however, resulted in nothing, for the good reason that nothing more was known.

At this point the company were startled by another knock, and so persuaded was Mrs Twitter that it must be Sammy himself, that she rushed out of the room, opened the door, and almost flung herself into the arms of Number 666.

"I—I—beg your pardon, Mr Scott, I thought that—"

"No harm done, ma'am," said Giles. "May I come in?"

"Certainly, and most welcome."

When the tall constable bowed his head to pass under the ridiculously small doorway, and stood erect in the still more ridiculously small parlour, it seemed as though the last point of capacity had been touched, and the walls of the room must infallibly burst out. But they did not! Probably the house had been built before domiciles warranted to last twenty years had come into fashion.

"You have found him!" exclaimed Mrs Twitter, clasping her hands and looking up in Giles's calm countenance with tearful eyes.

"Yes, ma'am, I am happy to tell you that we have at last traced him. I have just left him."

"And does he know you have come here? Is he expecting us?" asked the poor woman breathlessly.

"Oh! dear, no, ma'am, I rather think that if he knew I had come here, he would not await my return, for the young gentleman does not seem quite willing to come home. Indeed he is not quite fit; excuse me."

"How d'you know he's not willing?" demanded Mr Twitter, who felt a rising disposition to stand up for Sammy.

"Because I heard him say so, sir. I went into the place where he was, to look for some people who are wanted, and saw your son sitting with a well-known rough of the name of North, who has become a changed man, however, and has put on the blue ribbon. I knew North well, and recognised your son at once. North seemed to have been trying to persuade your boy to return," ("bless him! bless him!" from Mrs Twitter), "for I heard him say as I passed—'Oh! no, no, no, I can never return home!'"

"Where is he? Take me to him at once. My bonnet and shawl, Molly!"

"Pardon me, ma'am," said Giles. "It is not a very fit place for a lady—though there are some ladies who go to low lodging-houses regularly to preach; but unless you go for that purpose it—"

"Yes, my dear, it would be quite out of place," interposed Twitter. "Come, it is my duty to go to this place. Can you lead me to it, Mr Scott?"

"Oh! and I should like to go too—so much, so very much!"

It was little Di who spoke, but her father said that the idea was preposterous.

"Pardon me, Sir Richard," said Mr Seaward, "this happens to be my night for preaching in the common lodging-house where Mr Scott says poor Sam is staying. If you choose to accompany me, there is nothing to prevent your little daughter going. Of course it would be as well that no one whom the boy might recognise should accompany us, but his father might go and stand at the door outside, while the owner of the lodging might be directed to tell Sam that some one wishes to see him."

"Your plan is pretty good, but I will arrange my plans myself," said Mr Twitter, who suddenly roused himself to action with a degree of vigour that carried all before it. "Go and do your own part, Mr Seaward. Give no directions to the proprietor of the lodging, and leave Sammy to me. I will have a cab ready for him, and his mother in the cab waiting, with a suit of his own clothes. Are you ready?"

"Quite ready," said the missionary, amused as well as interested by the good man's sudden display of resolution. Mrs Twitter, also, was reduced to silence by surprise, as well as by submission. Sir Richard agreed to go and take Di with him, if Giles promised to hold himself in readiness within call.

"You see," he said, "I have been in similar places before now, but—not with my little child!"

As for Loper, Larrabel, Crackaby, Stickler, and Company—feeling that it would be improper to remain after the host and hostess were gone; that it would be equally wrong to offer to go with them, and quite inappropriate to witness the home-coming,—they took themselves off, but each resolved to flutter unseen in the neighbourhood until he, or she, could make quite sure that the prodigal had returned.

It was to one of the lowest of the common lodging-houses that Sam Twitter the younger had resorted on the night he had been discovered by Number 666. That day he had earned sixpence by carrying a carpet bag to a railway station. One penny he laid out in bread, one penny in cheese. With the remaining fourpence he could purchase the right to sit in the lodging-house kitchen, and to sleep in a bed in a room with thirty or forty homeless ones like himself.

On his way to this abode of the destitute, he was overtaken by a huge man with a little bit of blue ribbon in his button-hole.

"Hallo! young feller," exclaimed the man, "you're the chap that was livin' wi' Ned Frog the night I called to see 'im—eh! Sam Twitter, ain't you?"

"Yes," said young Sam, blushing scarlet with alarm at the abruptness of the question. "Yes, I am. T-Twitter is my name. You're the man that gave him the Bible, are you not, whom he turned out of his house for tryin' to speak to him about his soul?"

"The same, young feller. That's me, an' Reggie North is my name. He'd 'ave 'ad some trouble to turn me out once, though, but I've given up quarrellin' and fightin' now, havin' enlisted under the banner of the Prince of Peace," replied the man, who was none other than our Bible-salesman, the man who contributed the memorable speech—"Bah!" and "Pooh!" at the Gospel-temperance meeting. "Where are you going?"

Sam, who never could withhold information or retain a secret if asked suddenly, gave the name of the common lodging-house to which he was bound.

"Well, I'm going there too, so come along."

Sam could not choose but go with the man. He would rather have been alone, but could not shake him off.

Entering, they sat down at a table together near the kitchen fire, and North, pulling out of his pocket a small loaf, cut it in two and offered Sam half.

Several men were disputing in the box or compartment next to them, and as they made a great noise, attracting the attention of all around, North and his friend Sam were enabled the more easily to hold confidential talk unnoticed, by putting their heads together and chatting low as they ate their frugal meal.

"What made you leave Ned?" asked North.

"How did you know I'd left him?"

"Why, because if you was still with him you wouldn't be here!"

This was so obvious that Sam smiled; but it was a sad apology for a smile.

"I left him, because he constantly offered me beer, and I've got such an awful desire for beer now, somehow, that I can't resist it, so I came away. And there's no chance of any one offering me beer in this place."

"Not much," said North, with a grin. "But, young feller," (and there was something earnestly kind in the man's manner here), "if you feel an awful desire for drink, you'd better put on this."

He touched his bit of blue ribbon.

"No use," returned Sam, sorrowfully, "I once put it on, and—and—I've broke the pledge."

"That's bad, no doubt; but what then?" returned North; "are we never to tell the truth any more 'cause once we told a lie? Are we never to give up swearin' 'cause once we uttered a curse? The Lord is able to save us, no matter how much we may have sinned. Why, sin is the very thing He saves us from—if we'll only come to Him."

Sam shook his head, but the manner of the man had attracted him, and eventually he told all his story to him. Reggie North listened earnestly, but the noise of the disputants in the next box was so great that they rose, intending to go to a quieter part of the large room. The words they heard at the moment, however, arrested them. The speaker was, for such a place, a comparatively well-dressed man, and wore a top-coat. He was discoursing on poverty and its causes.

"It is nothing more nor less," he said, with emphasis, "than the absence of equality that produces so much poverty."

"Hear! hear!" cried several voices, mingled with which, however, were the scoffing laughs of several men who knew too well and bitterly that the cause of their poverty was not the absence of equality, but, drink with improvidence.

"What right," asked the man, somewhat indignantly, "what right has Sir Crossly Cowel, for instance, the great capitalist, to his millions that 'e don't know what to do with, when we're starvin'?" (Hear!) "He didn't earn these millions; they was left to 'im by his father, an' he didn't earn 'em, nor did his grandfather, or his great-grandfather, and so, back an' back to the time of the robber who came over with William—the greatest robber of all—an' stole the money, or cattle, from our forefathers." (Hear! hear!) "An' what right has Lord Lorrumdoddy to the thousands of acres of land he's got?" ('Ha! you may say that!' from an outrageously miserable-looking man, who seemed too wretched to think, and only spoke for a species of pastime.) "What right has he, I say, to his lands? The ministers of religion, too, are to be blamed, for they toady the rich and uphold the unjust system. My friends, it is these rich capitalists and landowners who oppress the people. What right have they, I ask again, to their wealth, when the inmates of this house, and thousands of others, are ill-fed and in rags? If I had my way," (Hear! hear! and a laugh), "I would distribute the wealth of the country, and have no poor people at all such as I see before me—such as this poor fellow," (laying his hand on the shoulder of the outrageously miserable man, who said 'Just so' feebly, but seemed to shrink from his touch). "Do I not speak the truth?" he added, looking round with the air of a man who feels that he carries his audience with him.

"Well, mister, I ain't just quite clear about that," said Reggie North, rising up and looking over the heads of those in front of him. There was an immediate and complete silence, for North had both a voice and a face fitted to command attention. "I'm not a learned man, you see, an' hain't studied the subjec', but isn't there a line in the Bible which says, 'Blessed are they that consider the poor?' Now it do seem to me that if we was all equally rich, there would be no poor to consider, an' no rich to consider 'em!"

There was a considerable guffaw at this, and the argumentative man was about to reply, but North checked him with—

"'Old on, sir, I ain't done yet. You said that Sir Cowley Cross—"

"Crossly Cowel," cried his opponent, correcting.

"I ax your pardon; Sir Crossly Cowel—that 'e 'ad no right to 'is millions, 'cause 'e didn't earn 'em, and because 'is father left 'em to 'im. Now, I 'ad a grandmother with one eye, poor thing—but of coorse that's nothin' to do wi' the argiment—an' she was left a fi' pun note by 'er father as 'ad a game leg—though that's nothin' to do wi' the argiment neither. Now, what puzzles me is, that if Sir Cow—Cross—"

A great shout of laughter interrupted North here, for he looked so innocently stupid, that most of the audience saw he was making game of the social reformer.

"What puzzles me is," continued North, "that if Sir Crossly Cowel 'as no right to 'is millions, my old grandmother 'ad no right to 'er fi' pun note!" ("Hear, hear," and applause.) "I don't know nothin' about that there big thief Willum you mentioned, nor yet Lord Lorrumdoddy, not bein' 'ighly connected, you see, mates, but no doubt this gentleman believes in 'is principles—"

"Of course I does," said the social reformer indignantly.

"Well, then," resumed North, suddenly throwing off his sheepish look and sternly gazing at the reformer while he pointed to the outrageously miserable man, who had neither coat, vest, shoes, nor socks, "do you see that man? If you are in earnest, take off your coat and give it to him. What right have you to two coats when he has none?"

The reformer looked surprised, and the proposal was received with loud laughter; all the more that he seemed so little to relish the idea of parting with one of his coats in order to prove the justice of his principles, and his own sincerity.

To give his argument more force, Reggie North took a sixpence from his pocket and held it up.

"See here, mates, when I came to this house I said to myself, 'The Lord 'as given me success to-day in sellin' His word,'—you know, some of you, that I'm a seller of Bibles and Testaments?"

"Ay, ay, old boy. We know you," said several voices.

"And I wasn't always that," added North.

"That's true, anyhow," said a voice with a laugh.

"Well. For what I was, I might thank drink and a sinful heart. For what I am I thank the Lord. But, as I was goin' to say, I came here intendin' to give this sixpence—it ain't much, but it's all I can spare—to some poor feller in distress, for I practise what I preach, and I meant to do it in a quiet way. But it seems to me that, seein' what's turned up, I'll do more good by givin' it in a public way—so, there it is, old man," and he put the sixpence on the table in front of the outrageously miserable man, who could hardly believe his eyes.

The change to an outrageously jovial man, with the marks of misery still strong upon him, was worthy of a pantomime, and spoke volumes; for, small though the sum might seem to Sir Crossly Cowel, or Lord Lorrumdoddy, it represented a full instead of an empty stomach and a peaceful instead of a miserable night to one wreck of humanity.

The poor man swept the little coin into his pocket and rose in haste with a "thank 'ee," to go out and invest it at once, but was checked by North.

"Stop, stop, my fine fellow! Not quite so fast. If you'll wait till I've finished my little business here, I'll take you to where you'll get some warm grub for nothin', and maybe an old coat too." Encouraged by such brilliant prospects, the now jovially-miserable man sat down and waited while North and Sam went to a more retired spot near the door, where they resumed the confidential talk that had been interrupted.

"The first thing you must do, my boy," said North, kindly, "is to return to your father's 'ouse; an' that advice cuts two ways—'eaven-ward an' earth-ward."

"Oh! no, no, no, I can never return home," replied Sam, hurriedly, and thinking only of the shame of returning in his wretched condition to his earthly father.

It was at this point that the couple had come under the sharp stern eye of Number 666, who, as we have seen, went quietly out and conveyed the information direct to the Twitter family.



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

THE RETURNING PRODIGAL.

For a considerable time the Bible-seller plied Sam with every argument he could think of in order to induce him to return home, and he was still in the middle of his effort when the door opened, and two young men of gentlemanly appearance walked in, bearing a portable harmonium between them.

They were followed by one of the ladies of the Beehive, who devote all their time—and, may we not add, all their hearts—to the rescue of the perishing. Along with her came a tall, sweet-faced girl. She was our friend Hetty Frog, who, after spending her days at steady work, spent some of her night hours in labours of love. Hetty was passionately fond of music, and had taught herself to play the harmonium sufficiently to accompany simple hymns.

After her came the missionary, whose kind face was familiar to most of the homeless ones there. They greeted him with good-natured familiarity, but some of their faces assumed a somewhat vinegar aspect when the tall form of Sir Richard Brandon followed Seaward.

"A bloated haristocrat!" growled one of the men.

"Got a smart little darter, anyhow," remarked another, as Di, holding tight to her father's hand, glanced from side to side with looks of mingled pity and alarm.

For poor little Di had a not uncommon habit of investing everything in couleur de rose, and the stern reality which met her had not the slightest tinge of that colour. Di had pictured to herself clean rags and picturesque poverty. The reality was dirty rags and disgusting poverty. She had imagined sorrowful faces. Had she noted them when the missionary passed, she might indeed have seen kindly looks; but when her father passed there were only scowling faces, nearly all of which were unshaven and dirty. Di had not thought at all of stubbly beards or dirt! Neither had she thought of smells, or of stifling heat that it was not easy to bear. Altogether poor little Di was taken down from a height on that occasion to which she never again attained, because it was a false height. In after years she reached one of the true heights—which was out of sight higher than the false one!

There was something very businesslike in these missionaries, for there was nothing of the simply amateur in their work—like the visit of Di and her father. They were familiar with the East-end mines; knew where splendid gems and rich gold were to be found, and went about digging with the steady persistence of the labourer, coupled, however, with the fire of the enthusiast.

They carried the harmonium promptly to the most conspicuous part of the room, planted it there, opened it, placed a stool in front of it, and one of the brightest diamonds from that mine—in the person of Hetty Frog—sat down before it. Simply, and in sweet silvery tones, she sang—"Come to the Saviour."

The others joined—even Sir Richard Brandon made an attempt to sing—as he had done on a previous occasion, but without much success, musically speaking. Meanwhile, John Seaward turned up the passage from which he had prepared to speak that evening. And so eloquent with nature's simplicity was the missionary, that the party soon forgot all about the Twitters while the comforting Gospel was being urged upon the unhappy creatures around.

But we must not forget the Twitters. They are our text and sermon just now!

Young Sam Twitter had risen with the intention of going out when the missionary entered, for words of truth only cut him to the heart. But his companion whispered him to wait a bit. Soon his attention was riveted.

While he sat there spell-bound, a shabby-genteel man entered and sat down beside him. He wore a broad wide-awake, very much slouched over his face, and a coat which had once been fine, but now bore marks of having been severely handled—as if recently rubbed by a drunken wearer on whitewashed and dirty places. The man's hands were not so dirty, however, as one might have expected from his general appearance, and they trembled much. On one of his fingers was a gold ring. This incongruity was lost on Sam, who was too much absorbed to care for the new comer, and did not even notice that he pushed somewhat needlessly close to him.

These things were not, however, lost on Reggie North, who regarded the man with some surprise, not unmixed with suspicion.

When, after a short time, however, this man laid his hand gently on that of Sam and held it, the boy could no longer neglect his eccentricities. He naturally made an effort to pull the hand away, but the stranger held it fast. Having his mind by that time entirely detached from the discourse of the missionary, Sam looked at the stranger in surprise, but could not see his face because of the disreputable wide-awake which he wore. But great was his astonishment, not to say alarm, when he felt two or three warm tears drop on his hand.

Again he tried to pull it away, but the strange man held it tighter. Still further, he bent his head over it and kissed it.

A strange unaccountable thrill ran through the boy's frame. He stooped, looked under the brim of the hat, and beheld his father!

"Sammy—dear, dear Sammy," whispered the man, in a husky voice.

But Sammy could not reply. He was thunderstruck. Neither could his father speak, for he was choking.

But Reggie North had heard enough. He was quick-witted, and at once guessed the situation.

"Now then, old gen'lm'n," he whispered, "don't you go an' make a fuss, if you're wise. Go out as quiet as you came in, an' leave this young 'un to me. It's all right. I'm on your side."

Samuel Twitter senior was impressed with the honesty of the man's manner, and the wisdom of his advice. Letting go the hand, after a parting squeeze, he rose up and left the room. Two minutes later, North and Sammy followed.

They found the old father outside, who again grasped his son's hand with the words, "Sammy, my boy—dear Sammy;" but he never got further than that.

Number 666 was there too.

"You'll find the cab at the end of the street, sir," he said, and next moment Sammy found himself borne along—not unwillingly—by North and his father.

A cab door was opened. A female form was seen with outstretched arms.

"Mother!"

"Sammy—darling—"

The returning prodigal disappeared into the cab. Mr Twitter turned round.

"Thank you. God bless you, whoever you are," he said, fumbling in his vest pocket; having forgotten that he represented an abject beggar, and had no money there.

"No thanks to me, sir. Look higher," said the Bible-seller, thrusting the old gentleman almost forcibly into the vehicle. "Now then, cabby, drive on."

The cabby obeyed. Having already received his instructions he did not drive home. Where he drove to is a matter of small consequence. It was to an unknown house, and a perfect stranger to Sammy opened the door. Mrs Twitter remained in the cab while Sammy and his father entered the house, the latter carrying a bundle in his hand. They were shown into what the boy must have considered—if he considered anything at all just then—a preposterously small room.

The lady of the house evidently expected them, for she said, "The bath is quite ready, sir."

"Now, Sammy,—dear boy," said Mr Twitter, "off with your rags—and g-git into that b-bath."

Obviously Mr Twitter did not speak with ease. In truth it was all he could do to contain himself, and he felt that his only chance of bearing up was to say nothing more than was absolutely necessary in short ejaculatory phrases. Sammy was deeply touched, and began to wash his dirty face with a few quiet tears before taking his bath.

"Now then, Sammy—look sharp! You didn't use—to—be—so—slow! eh?"

"No, father. I suppose it—it—is want of habit. I haven't undressed much of late."

This very nearly upset poor Mr Twitter. He made no reply, but assisted his son to disrobe with a degree of awkwardness that tended to delay progress.

"It—it's not too hot—eh?"

"Oh! no, father. It's—it's—v-very nice."

"Go at it with a will, Sammy. Head and all, my boy—down with it. And don't spare the soap. Lots of soap here, Sammy—no end of soap!"

The truth of which Mr Twitter proceeded to illustrate by covering his son with a lather that caused him quickly to resemble whipped cream.

"Oh! hold on, father, it's getting into my eyes."

"My boy—dear Sammy—forgive me. I didn't quite know what I was doing. Never mind. Down you go again, Sammy—head and all. That's it. Now, that's enough; out you come."

"Oh! father," said the poor boy, while invisible tears trickled over his wet face, as he stepped out of the bath, "it's so good of you to forgive me so freely."

"Forgive you, my son! forgive! why, I'd—I'd—" He could say no more, but suddenly clasped Sammy to his heart, thereby rendering his face and person soap-suddy and wet to a ridiculous extent.

Unclasping his arms and stepping back, he looked down at himself.

"You dirty boy! what d'you mean by it?"

"It's your own fault, daddy," replied Sam, with a hysterical laugh, as he enveloped himself in a towel.

A knock at the bath-room door here produced dead silence.

"Please, sir," said a female voice, "the lady in the cab sends to say that she's gettin' impatient."

"Tell the lady in the cab to drive about and take an airing for ten minutes," replied Mr Twitter with reckless hilarity.

"Yes, sir."

"Now, my boy, here's your toggery," said the irrepressible father, hovering round his recovered son like a moth round a candle—"your best suit, Sammy; the one you used to wear only on Sundays, you extravagant fellow."

Sammy put it on with some difficulty from want of practice, and, after combing out and brushing his hair, he presented such a changed appearance that none of his late companions could have recognised him. His father, after fastening up his coat with every button in its wrong hole, and causing as much delay as possible by assisting him to dress, finally hustled him down-stairs and into the cab, where he was immediately re-enveloped by Mrs Twitter.

He was not permitted to see any one that night, but was taken straight to his room, where his mother comforted, prayed with, fed and fondled him, and then allowed him to go to bed.

Next morning early—before breakfast—Mrs Twitter assembled all the little Twitters, and put them on chairs in a row—according to order, for Mrs Twitter's mind was orderly in a remarkable degree. They ranged from right to left thus:—

Molly, Willie, Fred, Lucy, and Alice—with Alice's doll on a doll's chair at the left flank of the line.

"Now children," said Mrs Twitter, sitting down in front of the row with an aspect so solemn that they all immediately made their mouths very small and their eyes very large—in which respect they brought themselves into wonderful correspondence with Alice's doll. "Now children, your dear brother Sammy has come home."

"Oh! how nice! Where has he been? What has he seen? Why has he been away so long? How jolly!" were the various expressions with which the news was received.

"Silence."

The stillness that followed was almost oppressive, for the little Twitters had been trained to prompt obedience. To say truth they had not been difficult to train, for they were all essentially mild.

"Now, remember, when he comes down to breakfast you are to take no notice whatever of his having been away—no notice at all."

"Are we not even to say good-morning or kiss him, mamma?" asked little Alice with a look of wonder.

"Dear child, you do not understand me. We are all charmed to see Sammy back, and so thankful—so glad—that he has come, and we will kiss him and say whatever we please to him except," (here she cast an awful eye along the line and dropped her voice), "except ask him where—he— has—been."

"Mayn't we ask him how he liked it, mamma?" said Alice.

"Liked what, child?"

"Where he has been, mamma."

"No, not a word about where he has been; only that we are so glad, so very glad, to see him back."

Fred, who had an argumentative turn of mind, thought that this would be a rather demonstrative though indirect recognition of the fact that Sammy had been somewhere that was wrong, but, having been trained to unquestioning obedience, Fred said nothing.

"Now, dolly," whispered little Alice, bending down, "'member dat—you're so glad Sammy's come back; mustn't say more—not a word more."

"It is enough for you to know, my darlings," continued Mrs Twitter, "that Sammy has been wandering and has come back."

"Listen, Dolly, you hear? Sammy's been wandering an' come back. Dat's 'nuff for you."

"You see, dears," continued Mrs Twitter, with a slightly perplexed look, caused by her desire to save poor Sammy's feelings, and her anxiety to steer clear of the slightest approach to deception, "you see, Sammy has been long away, and has been very tired, and won't like to be troubled with too many questions at breakfast, you know, so I want you all to talk a good deal about anything you like—your lessons,—for instance, when he comes down."

"Before we say good-morning, mamma, or after?" asked Alice, who was extremely conscientious.

"Darling child," exclaimed the perplexed mother, "you'll never take it in. What I want to impress on you is—"

She stopped, suddenly, and what it was she meant to impress we shall never more clearly know, for at that moment the foot of Sammy himself was heard on the stair.

"Now, mind, children, not a word—not—a—word!"

The almost preternatural solemnity induced by this injunction was at once put to flight by Sammy, at whom the whole family flew with one accord and a united shriek—pulling him down on a chair and embracing him almost to extinction.

Fortunately for Sammy, and his anxious mother, that which the most earnest desire to obey orders would have failed to accomplish was brought about by the native selfishness of poor humanity, for, the first burst of welcome over, Alice began an elaborate account of her Dolly's recent proceedings, which seemed to consist of knocking her head against articles of furniture, punching out her own eyes and flattening her own nose; while Fred talked of his latest efforts in shipbuilding; Willie of his hopes in regard to soldiering, and Lucy of her attempts to draw and paint.

Mr and Mrs Twitter contented themselves with gazing on Sammy's somewhat worn face, and lying in watch, so that, when Alice or any of the young members of the flock seemed about to stray on the forbidden ground, they should be ready to descend, like two wolves on the fold, remorselessly change the subject of conversation, and carry all before them.

Thus tenderly was that prodigal son received back to his father's house.



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

CANADA AGAIN—AND SURPRISING NEWS.

It is most refreshing to those who have been long cooped up in a city to fly on the wings of steam to the country and take refuge among the scents of flowers and fields and trees. We have said this, or something like it, before, and remorselessly repeat it—for it is a grand truism.

Let us then indulge ourselves a little with a glance at the farm of Brankly in Canada.

Lake Ontario, with its expanse of boundless blue, rolls like an ocean in the far distance. We can see it from the hill-top where the sweet-smelling red-pines grow. At the bottom of the hill lies Brankly itself, with its orchards and homestead and fields of golden grain, and its little river, with the little saw-mill going as pertinaciously as if it, like the river, had resolved to go on for ever. Cattle are there, sheep are there, horses and wagons are there, wealth and prosperity are there, above all happiness is there, because there also dwells the love of God.

It is a good many years, reader, since you and I were last here. Then, the farm buildings and fences were brand-new. Now, although of course not old, they bear decided traces of exposure to the weather. But these marks only give compactness of look and unity of tone to everything, improving the appearance of the place vastly.

The fences, which at first looked blank and staring, as if wondering how they had got there, are now more in harmony with the fields they enclose. The plants which at first struggled as if unwillingly on the dwelling-house, now cling to it and climb about it with the affectionate embrace of old friends. Everything is improved—Well, no, not everything. Mr Merryboy's legs have not improved. They will not move as actively as they were wont to do. They will not go so far, and they demand the assistance of a stick. But Mr Merryboy's spirit has improved—though it was pretty good before, and his tendency to universal philanthropy has increased to such an extent that the people of the district have got into a way of sending their bad men and boys to work on his farm in order that they may become good!

Mrs Merryboy, however, has improved in every way, and is more blooming than ever, as well as a trifle stouter, but Mrs Merryboy senior, although advanced spiritually, has degenerated a little physically. The few teeth that kept her nose and chin apart having disappeared, her mouth has also vanished, though there is a decided mark which tells where it was—especially when she speaks or smiles. The hair on her forehead has become as pure white as the winter snows of Canada. Wrinkles on her visage have become the rule, not the exception, but as they all run into comical twists, and play in the forms of humour, they may, perhaps, be regarded as a physical improvement. She is stone deaf now, but this also may be put to the credit side of her account, for it has rendered needless those awkward efforts to speak loud and painful attempts to hear which used to trouble the family in days gone by. It is quite clear, however, when you look into granny's coal-black eyes, that if she were to live to the age of Methuselah she will never be blind, nor ill-natured, nor less pleased with herself, her surroundings, and the whole order of things created!

But who are these that sit so gravely and busily engaged with breakfast as though they had not the prospect of another meal that year? Two young men and a young girl. One young man is broad and powerful though short, with an incipient moustache and a fluff of whisker. The other is rather tall, slim, and gentlemanly, and still beardless. The girl is little, neat, well-made, at the budding period of life, brown-haired, brown-eyed, round, soft—just such a creature as one feels disposed to pat on the head and say, "My little pet!"

Why, these are two "waifs" and a "stray!" Don't you know them? Look again. Is not the stout fellow our friend Bobby Frog, the slim one Tim Lumpy, and the girl Martha Mild? But who, in all London, would believe that these were children who had bean picked out of the gutter? Nobody—except those good Samaritans who had helped to pick them up, and who could show you the photographs of what they once were and what they now are.

Mr Merryboy, although changed a little as regards legs, was not in the least deteriorated as to lungs. As Granny, Mrs Merryboy, and the young people sat at breakfast he was heard at an immense distance off, gradually making his way towards the house.

"Something seems to be wrong with father this morning, I think," said Mrs Merryboy, junior, listening.

Granny, observing the action, pretended to listen, and smiled.

"He's either unusually jolly or unusually savage—a little more tea, mother," said Tim Lumpy, pushing in his cup.

Tim, being father-and-motherless, called Mr Merryboy father and the wife mother. So did Martha, but Bobby Frog, remembering those whom he had left at home, loyally declined, though he did not object to call the elder Mrs Merryboy granny.

"Something for good or evil must have happened," said Bobby, laying down his knife and fork as the growling sound drew nearer.

At last the door flew open and the storm burst in. And we may remark that Mr Merryboy's stormy nature was, if possible, a little more obtrusive than it used to be, for whereas in former days his toes and heels did most of the rattling-thunder business, the stick now came into play as a prominent creator of din—not only when flourished by hand, but often on its own account and unexpectedly, when propped clumsily in awkward places.

"Hallo! good people all, how are 'ee? morning—morning. Boys, d'ee know that the saw-mill's come to grief?"

"No, are you in earnest, father?" cried Tim, jumping up.

"In earnest! Of course I am. Pretty engineers you are. Sawed its own bed in two, or burst itself. Don't know which, and what's more I don't care. Come, Martha, my bantam chicken, let's have a cup of tea. Bother that stick, it can't keep its legs much better than myself. How are you, mother? Glorious weather, isn't it?"

Mr Merryboy ignored deafness. He continued to speak to his mother just as though she heard him.

And she continued to nod and smile, and make-believe to hear with more demonstration of face and cap than ever. After all, her total loss of hearing made little difference, her sentiments being what Bobby Frog in his early days would have described in the words, "Wot's the hodds so long as you're 'appy?"

But Bobby had now ceased to drop or misapply his aitches—though he still had some trouble with his R's.

As he was chief engineer of the saw-mill, having turned out quite a mechanical genius, he ran down to the scene of disaster with much concern on hearing the old gentleman's report.

And, truly, when he and Tim reached the picturesque spot where, at the water's edge among fine trees and shrubs, the mill stood clearly reflected in its own dam, they found that the mischief done was considerable. The machinery, by which the frame with its log to be sawn was moved along quarter-inch by quarter-inch at each stroke, was indeed all right, but it had not been made self-regulating. The result was that, on one of the attendant workmen omitting to do his duty, the saw not only ripped off a beautiful plank from a log, but continued to cross-cut the end of the heavy framework, and then proceeded to cut the iron which held the log in its place. The result, of course, was that the iron refused to be cut, and savagely revenged itself by scraping off, flattening down, turning up, and otherwise damaging, the teeth of the saw!

"H'm! that comes of haste," muttered Bob, as he surveyed the wreck. "If I had taken time to make the whole affair complete before setting the mill to work, this would not have happened."

"Never mind, Bob, we must learn by experience, you know," said Tim, examining the damage done with a critical eye. "Luckily, we have a spare saw in the store."

"Run and fetch it," said Bob to the man in charge of the mill, whose carelessness had caused the damage, and who stared silently at his work with a look of horrified resignation.

When he was gone Bob and Tim threw off their coats, rolled up their sleeves to the shoulder, and set to work with a degree of promptitude and skill which proved them to be both earnest and capable workmen.

The first thing to be done was to detach the damaged saw from its frame.

"There," said Bob, as he flung it down, "you won't use your teeth again on the wrong subject for some time to come. Have we dry timber heavy enough to mend the frame, Tim?"

"Plenty—more than we want."

"Well, you go to work on it while I fix up the new saw."

To work the two went accordingly—adjusting, screwing, squaring, sawing, planing, mortising, until the dinner-bell called them to the house.

"So soon!" exclaimed Bob; "dinner is a great bother when a man is very busy."

"D'ye think so, Bob? Well, now, I look on it as a great comfort— specially when you're hungry."

"Ah! but that's because you are greedy, Tim. You always were too fond o' your grub."

"Come, Bob, no slang. You know that mother doesn't like it. By the way, talkin' of mothers, is it on Wednesday or Thursday that you expect your mother?"

"Thursday, my boy," replied Bob, with a bright look. "Ha! that will be a day for me!"

"So it will, Bob, I'm glad for your sake," returned Tim with a sigh, which was a very unusual expression of feeling for him. His friend at once understood its significance.

"Tim, my boy, I'm sorry for you. I wish I could split my mother in two and give you half of her."

"Yes," said Tim, somewhat absently, "it is sad to have not one soul in the world related to you."

"But there are many who care for you as much as if they were relations," said Bob, taking his friend's arm as they approached the house.

"Come along, come along, youngsters," shouted Mr Merryboy from the window, "the dinner's gettin' cold, and granny's gettin' in a passion. Look sharp. If you knew what news I have for you you'd look sharper."

"What news, sir?" asked Bob, as they sat down to a table which did not exactly "groan" with viands—it was too strong for that—but which was heavily weighted therewith.

"I won't tell you till after dinner—just to punish you for being late; besides, it might spoil your appetite."

"But suspense is apt to spoil appetite, father, isn't it?" said Tim, who, well accustomed to the old farmer's eccentricities, did not believe much in the news he professed to have in keeping.

"Well, then, you must just lose your appetites, for I won't tell you," said Mr Merryboy firmly. "It will do you good—eh! mother, won't a touch of starvation improve them, bring back the memory of old times— eh?"

The old lady, observing that her son was addressing her, shot forth such a beam of intelligence and goodwill that it was as though a gleam of sunshine had burst into the room.

"I knew you'd agree with me—ha! ha! you always do, mother," cried the farmer, flinging his handkerchief at a small kitten which was sporting on the floor and went into fits of delight at the attention.

After dinner the young men were about to return to their saw-mill when Mr Merryboy called them back.

"What would you say, boys, to hear that Sir Richard Brandon, with a troop of emigrants, is going to settle somewhere in Canada?"

"I would think he'd gone mad, sir, or changed his nature," responded Bob.

"Well, as to whether he's gone mad or not I can't tell—he may have changed his nature, who knows? That's not beyond the bounds of possibility. Anyway, he is coming. I've got a letter from a friend of mine in London who says he read it in the papers. But perhaps you may learn more about it in that."

He tossed a letter to Bob, who eagerly seized it.

"From sister Hetty," he cried, and tore it open.

The complete unity and unanimity of this family was well illustrated by the fact, that Bob began to read the letter aloud without asking leave and without apology.

"Dearest Bob," it ran, "you will get this letter only a mail before our arrival. I had not meant to write again, but cannot resist doing so, to give you the earliest news about it. Sir Richard has changed his mind! You know, in my last, I told you he had helped to assist several poor families from this quarter—as well as mother and me, and Matty. He is a real friend to the poor, for he doesn't merely fling coppers and old clothes at them, but takes trouble to find out about them, and helps them in the way that seems best for each. It's all owing to that sweet Miss Di, who comes so much about here that she's almost as well-known as Giles Scott the policeman, or our missionary. By the way, Giles has been made an Inspector lately, and has got no end of medals and a silver watch, and other testimonials, for bravery in saving people from fires, and canals, and cart wheels, and—he's a wonderful man is Giles, and they say his son is to be taken into the force as soon as he's old enough. He's big enough and sensible enough already, and looks twice his age. After all, if he can knock people down, and take people up, and keep order, what does it matter how young he is?

"But I'm wandering, I always do wander, Bob, when I write to you! Well, as I was saying, Sir Richard has changed his mind and has resolved to emigrate himself, with Miss Di and a whole lot of friends and work-people. He wants, as he says, to establish a colony of like-minded people, and so you may be sure that all who have fixed to go with him are followers of the Lord Jesus—and not ashamed to say so. As I had already taken our passages in the Amazon steamer—"

"The Amazon!" interrupted Mr Merryboy, with a shout, "why, that steamer has arrived already!"

"So it has," said Bob, becoming excited; "their letter must have been delayed, and they must have come by the same steamer that brought it; why, they'll be here immediately!"

"Perhaps to-night!" exclaimed Mrs Merryboy.

"Oh! how nice!" murmured Martha, her great brown eyes glittering with joy at the near prospect of seeing that Hetty about whom she had heard so much.

"Impossible!" said Tim Lumpy, coming down on them all with his wet-blanket of common-sense. "They would never come on without dropping us a line from Quebec, or Montreal, to announce their arrival."

"That's true, Tim," said Mr Merryboy, "but you've not finished the letter, Bob—go on. Mother, mother, what a variety of faces you are making!"

This also was true, for old Mrs Merryboy, seeing that something unusual was occurring, had all this time been watching the various speakers with her coal-black eyes, changing aspect with their varied expressions, and wrinkling her visage up into such inexpressible contortions of sympathetic good-will, that she really could not have been more sociable if she had been in full possession and use of her five senses.

"As I had already," continued Bob, reading, "taken our passages in the Amazon steamer, Sir Richard thought it best that we should come on before, along with his agent, who goes to see after the land, so that we might have a good long stay with you, and dear Mr and Mrs Merryboy, who have been so kind to you, before going on to Brandon—which, I believe, is the name of the place in the backwoods where Sir Richard means us all to go to. I don't know exactly where it is—and I don't know anybody who does, but that's no matter. Enough for mother, and Matty, and me to know that it's within a few hundred miles of you, which is very different from three thousand miles of an ocean!

"You'll also be glad to hear that Mr Twitter with all his family is to join this band. It quite puts me in mind of the story of the Pilgrim Fathers, that I once heard in dear Mr Holland's meeting hall, long ago. I wish he could come too, and all his people with him, and all the ladies from the Beehive. Wouldn't that be charming! But, then,—who would be left to look after London? No, it is better that they should remain at home.

"Poor Mr Twitter never quite got the better of his fire, you see, so he sold his share in his business, and is getting ready to come. His boys and girls will be a great help to him in Canada, instead of a burden as they have been in London—the younger ones I mean, of course, for Molly, and Sammy, and Willie have been helping their parents for a long time past. I don't think Mrs Twitter quite likes it, and I'm sure she's almost breaking her heart at the thought of leaving George Yard. It is said that their friends Mrs Loper, Mrs Larrabel, Stickler, and Crackaby, want to join, but I rather think Sir Richard isn't very keen to have them. Mr Stephen Welland is also coming. One of Sir Richard's friends, Mr Brisbane I think, got him a good situation in the Mint— that's where all the money is coined, you know—but, on hearing of this expedition to Canada, he made up his mind to go there instead; so he gave up the Mint—very unwillingly, however, I believe, for he wanted very much to go into the Mint. Now, no more at present from your loving and much hurried sister, (for I'm in the middle of packing), Hetty."