On my way home Satan said to me, "Now you're in for it." Sure enough. I comforted myself by audibly singing as I walked along, "Jesus Lover of My Soul." Maybe you think I was frightened and miserable. Not so. I could not have been happier; for the load was lifted, my conscience was clear.

On the following Monday evening we expected one of the pastors, by previous appointment, to preach in the mission. We waited. He never came. I was sent for to come to his parsonage the following morning, and there I learned this: "At a special ministerial meeting, which took place on Monday morning, the Woodland pastors took action with regard to the attitude assumed toward the churches by the woman, Mrs. Florence Roberts, now in charge of the City Gospel Mission. A motion was made, seconded, and unanimously adopted to boycott said mission and said worker."

Was the mission thereafter a failure? No, praise the Lord! It prospered, and it still prospers in the hands of the various workers the Master sends from time to time. He kept me there three years, and never did I lack for the things needful. In that time was I absent twice for short periods, but the mission nightly continued its precious office work under the guidance of the Holy Spirit.



CHAPTER X.

A BRIEF CALL TO SACRAMENTO—I ENTER THE SAN FRANCISCO FIELD.

Both those periods of absence were occasioned by the return of my son, who now had made two trips to and from the Philippines. After the second one he decided to return to Sacramento, if I would make a little home for him. His stay was of but a few months' duration notwithstanding our cozy, comfortable quarters, for the spirit of roving still possessed him, and erelong he shipped as an employee on one of the large passenger steamers bound for Australia. Then, at the repeated requests of many, I returned to Woodland, from which place I eventually accepted a call to the rescue work in San Francisco. There I made my home with Sister Kauffman, whose name and calling has already been briefly mentioned. For a long time we worked together for the inmates of The Home of Peace, and each Sunday morning at 9:30 o'clock I, with other Christians, could be found at the county jail, No. 3, adjacent to the Ingleside district and about three and one-half miles distant from the city center. Of this branch of the work we will speak hereafter.

The duties and the expenses of the San Francisco home were great; for there was always a large family, most of whom, on coming, were destitute of decent apparel, and, with scarcely an exception, all needed physical treatment, some permanently, so that we toiled incessantly either in the sewing-room, the sick-room, or the nursery, where were several dear little babies. Who does not love a baby? You can not imagine how attached we were to them, soon forgetting their unfortunate advent, and doing what we could to instruct and aid their untutored young mothers. The feeding of the family was alone often a problem (I mean as to the source), so that we had to be very much in the spirit of prayer.

Sometimes our Father would see fit to test us to the limit, for instance: Shortly after my coming, the one in charge of food supplies said, "Sister Kauffman, we are out of everything. There is only enough for today, and perhaps tomorrow morning's breakfast." The worker whose business it was to visit The Mission merchants for any donations of food, etc. came home late that afternoon with but meager results for her day's hard labor. In the morning, following earnest prayer with the family gathered around that poorly supplied breakfast table, Sister Kauffman and I started out to plead for absolute necessities. All without exception commended this laudable work for the wandering girls, but oh! the excuses. To this day I am amazed at many of them. In one office was a portly, good-natured-looking gentleman puffing away at an expensive cigar. (Reader, there was a time in my life when I enjoyed the fragrance of a good one, for my husband was a smoker.) He declared that he could not afford to assist one cent's worth, that he was too poor. I dared to inquire gently how many cigars he smoked daily and if they were not at least twenty-five cents for two. "Worse than that," he proudly replied; "twenty cents apiece. But I only smoke half a dozen a day at the most. I'm not an inveterate smoker; besides, it's my only bad habit." When I told him that the cost of one day's smoking would feed all our hungry family with a substantial meal, he turned his back and began to get busy at his desk, and thus we considered ourselves dismissed. There was excuse after excuse, refusal after refusal, principally on the plea of there being so many appeals for charity equally worthy and only a limitless pocket-book being requisite to meet the many demands.

Noon-time discovered us in front of the Call building, corner of Market and Third Streets, both of us faint, weary, hungry, and slightly discouraged, yet still hopeful. We stood on the street corner for a few minutes holding each other's hands, and, unknown to the passers-by, praying for strength of body and soul, imploring our heavenly Father to renew our faith and courage. After resting a little while on one of the stone seats near Lotta's Fountain, we once more began to toil up office stairs or ride in elevators. At four o'clock we were near the city front in the wholesale district. Still our faith was being tested, for most of those from whom we had expected help had either gone for the day or were absent from some other cause. At last I weakened.

"Sister Kauffman, I can stand this awful strain no longer," I said. "Perhaps God has sent in food to the girls during our absence. Let us try to get back home." We could not telephone. That would mean a nickel, and we didn't have it. "Once more, dear, once more we'll try," replied courageous Sister Kauffman. So we ascended a long flight of stairs, only to find the door fast locked. Bless her noble soul! she was just as tired, weak, and hungry as I, but infinitely less selfish.

As we came out on the sidewalk, she suddenly remembered one who had some time previously promised help whenever she happened in that vicinity again. It was but half a block distant. Thither we dragged our weary bodies. When we reached the top of that stairway, a gentleman was just in the act of locking a door. His greeting was:

"Well, well, Sister Kauffman, how do you do, and how are all your family? You're just in time. I was about to go home. Glad to make your acquaintance, Sister Roberts. Ladies, come in a moment and rest after your hard climb." He handed a piece of money (five dollars) to Sister Kauffman, remarking as he did so that he had been saving it for her several days.

Then something happened—something totally unlooked for by any of us three. Sister Kauffman and I burst into tears and wept unrestrainedly for several minutes, whilst the kind friend retired, I suppose, to a remote corner of the large room. Presently, when we had become somewhat calm, we told him what we had endured since early morning. It was not at all strange (now was it?) that this good-hearted man, during our short recital, resorted to frequent use of his handkerchief. But it was now fast growing dark, and we had to hurry.

Many samples of canned goods were upon the shelves. (This was a wholesale commission merchant's office.) He filled my net shopping-bag, made up another package, then forth we went with smiling faces and happy hearts. Presently he helped us on to our car, then left us. "Oh! Sister Roberts dear, we'll have to break our five dollars to pay our car fare," said Sister Kauffman. When the conductor came our way and she inquired whether he had change for five, he answered, "Your fares are paid." God bless that noble-hearted, thoughtful gentleman. I do not remember his name, but I do hope he will read or hear of this. Whether he does or not, the generous deed is, I feel sure, recorded to his credit in heaven.

When we turned the corner of our street, some of the family, disregarding the rules, rushed out to greet us and to help us in with our load. Soon our five dollars was purchasing bread, potatoes, and other things for an immediate meal, to which we all quickly sat down, and, after reverently thanking our heavenly Father ate—shall I say?—yes, ravenously.

Reader, do not imagine this as being a common every-day experience. By no means, although we were ever subject to tests in one form or another. This taught us to pray more, and not to labor quite so hard—an excellent and profitable lesson; also, to pray God to reprove those who, though well able to help, had refused. "For inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not to me." Matt. 25:45.



CHAPTER XI

I AM INTRODUCED TO THE DIVES OF BARBARY COAST

Sister Kauffman was well acquainted with the dives of Barbary Coast, she having occasionally to seek some one inquired for, or perhaps a lost member of the family returned to former haunts of sin. The next time she had occasion to go, I requested that I might accompany her. She very gladly consented.

At nine o'clock that night we were in a horrible neighborhood. I had a tight grip on her arm, and no wonder, for we were now where every vice and crime were common and reigned supreme.

Plainly do I still see the first place we entered. It was called "The Klondyke." "Come, sister, don't be afraid: God is watching over us," whispered Sister Kauffman as she walked me through a screen door and into that gaudy, low barroom, where were congregated a most deplorable mixture of degraded men and youth in various stages of inebriety. The place reeked with the vile odors of whiskey, beer, tobacco, uncleanliness of body, etc., so that my stomach revolted, and I felt as if I should be compelled to return to the fresh air; but Sister Kauffman, who had obtained permission from the proprietor (tending bar), took me through another doorway, which led into a dance-hall. Positively I was as though rooted to the spot, and I said to myself, "This is even worse than anything of which I read or hear." I do not dare to describe the situation; for I know that young people are going to read this book and I have not the least inclination to sully their minds. Suffice it to say, I was looking upon a shameful scene of total depravity participated in by both sexes, some of whom were little more than in their teens.

An intoxicated girl sidled up to me. How sickening was that vile breath in my face as she said. "Say, what yer got in that case?" It was my auto-harp. "Sing something for her, Sister Roberts," said Sister Kauffman, at the same time drawing the girl and me into a remote corner. I sent up to the throne of grace a quick, silent petition, and the answer immediately returned, for strength came. Taking my little instrument in my arms. I commenced, with shaky voice, the song that you will find between these pages entitled, "Her Voice." "Don't, oh! don't! Oh! for God's sake don't!" sobbed and shrieked that poor wanderer as she threw herself upon me and buried her head, with its tawdry covering and matted mop of dirty hair, in my lap.

[Illustration: SHEET MUSIC

Andante

HER VOICE.

Words and Music by Mrs. Florence Roberts.

(Illustration)

1. Hark! I hear the sweet-est music Float-ing 2. Once a-gain I hear sweet voi-ces I've not 3. Years have passed since they have left us, Still the

(Illustration)

round me o'er and o'er, Such a min-gling of sweet heard for man-y years, Join-ing in the heav'n-ly ten-der mem-o-ry Of these sing-ing saint-ed

(Illustration)

voi-ces, Sing-ing as in days of yore; And I cho-rus; And my eyes are filled with tears, As I loved ones Lin-gers round my heart to-day. Now I'm

(Illustration)

feel such peace and glad-ness Steal-ing o'er me ten-der-ly, hear my saint-ed moth-er, With the loved ones free from care, wait-ing and I'm lis-t'ning For the one that I love best.

(Illustration)

As I hear my moth-er sing-ing, "Je-sus Sing a-gain as in my child-hood, Of no Je-sus, bid-ding me to blend My voice in

(Illustration)

loves me, e-ven me, loves me, e-ven me." sor-row o-ver there; sor-row o-ver there, sing-ing with the blest; sing-ing with the blest.

Refrain. 1st Verse.

(Illustration)

"I am so glad that Jesus loves me, Je-sus loves e-ven me."

Refrain. 2d Verse.

(Illustration)

"There'll be no more sor-row there, There'll be no more

(Illustration)

sor-row there; In heav-en a-bove, where

(Illustration)

all is love, There'll be no more sor-row there."

Refrain. 3d Verse.

(Illustration)

"In the sweet bye and bye We shall

(Illustration)

meet on that beau-ti-ful shore; In the sweet bye and

(Illustration)

bye, We shall meet on that beau-ti-ful shore." ]

This drew the attention of the dancers, causing a temporary halt. One of her companions tried to pacify her and to draw her away, but she resisted and only clung the closer. I forgot the awful surroundings as my heart went out in tenderest pity. Placing my hand on her shoulder, I offered soothing words and inquired if I could help her, if I could comfort her. Presently she said: "Lady, God must have sent you here tonight. I'm sober now; I was drunk when you came in. I want to let you know my mother is dead." How she sobbed! The dancing was resumed, whilst the girl, somewhat recovered, continued her story. "She only left me a year ago. She was a good Christian, my mother was; and just before she died, she sent everybody out of the room so as to have a talk with me. 'Hazel,' she said, 'You've given me a heap of trouble and anxiety, but I forgive you, dear, I forgive you. Now kiss Mother, and promise to be a better girl. I've been praying many a long day for you, my child. I'm going to leave you. The doctor says I may not see morning. Don't cry, dear. Don't cry.' .... And then she prayed aloud. 'O God! make my naughty girl a good girl. Save her soul, O God, and may I some day meet her in heaven. Please, God. for the dear Savior's sake. Amen.' ... Just look how I've kept my word! What's your name, lady?"

"You may call me Mother Roberts, dear, and, furthermore, you may come with me and that other lady over there, to our home if you wish."

Before we left that place, and between dances, a man sitting in drunken stupor on a bench suddenly tilted back his hat, stared at me, and accosted me thus:

"Howdy-do, Mother Roberts."

"My! who is this that recognizes me in such a den?" I questioned myself. "Who are you, my man, and where have we met?" I inquired. Imagine my chagrin at his replying:

"In the jail at Sacramento."

"How awful! What will these people think—that I am an ex-jail bird?" Such were the thoughts that were running through my mind.

"Yep; you gave me a speel there, and I don't forget it. Say, kids, this 'ere woman's all right. I wish I'd a minded wot she said, 'n I wouldn't be 'ere ter night."

Hearing these last words, Sister Kauffman, who had been busy dealing with many souls all of this time, said:

"If you mean that, come with Mother Roberts and me down to the mission, a block away. The dear young men workers there will be only too glad to help you."

Then we immediately wended our way out. I with my precious autoharp under one arm and the infinitely more precious human treasure's arm tucked safely under my other. We soon reached the humble mission, left the man in safe keeping, and took a homeward-bound car, retiring about 2 A.M., grateful and almost too happy to sleep.

Hazel stayed with us some time and then obtained a permanent situation in a Christian family as their trusted domestic.

The ice, now broken, soon thawed, and night after night two or three of us workers went to the slums, dance-halls, and dives, endeavoring to rescue some mother's wandering boy or girl. Did we always succeed? By no means. Often the small hours of the morning found us wending our way homeward weary and disappointed, but never greatly discouraged. At the least, we sowed the precious seed, claiming God's promise in Isa. 55:11 as we did so.

Many a time I have seen a girl quickly tuck away in the bosom of her dress some little tract (we always were well supplied), perhaps bearing these words. "Jesus the Savior loves you, and sent me to tell you so"; for not always, by any means, would the proprietors or proprietresses permit us to converse with their victims. Sometimes we were so fortunate as to procure a girl's lodging-house address; then we had the gratification of calling there in the daytime and privately dealing with her, always with more or less good results. On such visits I took the autoharp; for singing is a great, indeed I may say, an invaluable aid in this work.

On one occasion, when three of us were seeking the lost, making saloon to saloon, dance-hall to dance-hall visits, we went into a place where my attention was immediately drawn to a beautiful, modest-looking young lady (about seventeen years old) standing alongside of a gorgeous bar and trying to repel the advances of a pompous, sporty-looking middle-aged man. The man behind the bar was frowning and saying to her, "Here, none of those monkey-shines, miss. You tend to business. D'you hear?" Sister Kauffman and the other worker had gone into the dance-hall in the rear. Quickly stepping up to the girl, I inquired of her what he meant, what so young and modest a girl was doing there, and whether she did not desire to leave, and implored her to let me aid in rescuing her from her wretched life. Quickly she told me that she was motherless and also that she had been home from an Eastern school only about twenty-four days. "My child, what has happened that you are here?" I inquired, astonished beyond measure. Before she could reply the big blonde man tending bar said:



"Here you" (addressing me), "make yourself scarce. You and your kind are —— —— hoo-doos to our business"

"Please, please go," the girl pleaded.

Just at this juncture Sister Kauffman and her lady companion came through the dance hall double doors. The latter held them wide open and in her loud, penetrating voice slowly uttered these words:

"What shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his own soul? or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?" ...

"Come, Sister Roberts."

"Yes, in a minute," I replied as I motioned to them I would join them outside.

"I will not leave," I said to the girl, "unless you give me some good reason for not accompanying me, seeing you express a desire to be rescued."

"—— —— ——!" shouted the man, "if you don't clear right out, I'll brain you" He held suspended in the air a full soda water bottle, one of the heaviest.

The girl, pushing me away from her, said, "Go! go! He'll do it." And then she whispered:

"He's my father."

I rushed out, excitedly informed my companions, and then quickly sought a policeman, who, when I informed him, simply shrugged his shoulders and remarked: "I can't interfere. The man has a license, his daughter isn't of age, he's her legal guardian. Don't know what you can do about it; you'll have to consult higher authority than me"—a course which we proceeded to follow in the morning.

In the evening we visited that same place, accompanied by an officer in private clothes. A large, showy woman and also a bar-tender stood behind the bar. "Are you the party what was here last night trying to make trouble?" she inquired. "Well, you're left. The bird has flown. Ha! ha! I'm running this place now, and I don't need your help, neither. Don't you come here while I'm in charge of it," etc. Evidently, the policeman first accosted had given the alarm. I have never heard what became of that poor girl and her wicked, unnatural father. A tenderhearted woman in that awful neighborhood, one who had tried to protect her, told me this:

The girl's mother died when she was a babe. The father (not then a saloon man) sent her to New York to be raised by her aunt. When old enough she was placed in school. The aunt died. She was removed to another school, and there she remained until called for by her father, who all these years had been her provider. He brought her to San Francisco, where he now kept a dive and dance-hall. She being a rather timid girl, it can be readily understood why she submitted to his authority and tyranny.

My mind now reverts to two of the soldier boys, returned from the Philippines and seated one night in one of those places where we were permitted to work and also to sing. Toward the close of the song,

Can a boy forget his mother's prayer, When he has wandered God knows where?

I discovered them with their arms about each other's shoulders and both with the tears silently coursing down their cheeks. Setting my instrument on one side and remembering my own dear son, the daily object of my prayers, I essayed, in earnest, gentle tones, to admonish them. Both acknowledged having been carefully reared by Christian mothers, one of whom was dead. Had they been my own, I could not have more earnestly pleaded with them. In consequence of my admonition they soon took their departure, promising as they did so never again to cross the threshold of any place where they would be ashamed to have their mothers find them, and also to seek once more their neglected Savior. Both were soon reclaimed; for I had the pleasure of meeting them later in a house of worship on the Army's camp-grounds, at the Presidio.

Christian parents, you that through death or other means have been deprived of the companionship of your children, why not occasionally join some of the rescue workers in their efforts to save somebody's wandering boy or girl, instead of sitting in a rocking-chair, nursing your sorrows? Speak the kindly, loving word of warning or advice; encourage the wayward son or daughter to reform; and thus better your condition as well as theirs. This will surely bring an indescribable peace and satisfaction to the soul, assuage much grief, and help to promote the Master's kingdom. He takes us at our word. We sing:

I'll go where you want me to go, dear Lord. Over mountain, or plain, or sea, I'll say what you want me to say, dear Lord, I'll be what you want me to be.

Do we mean it?



CHAPTER XII.

MARY.

Of all the pathetic stories from members of our family, I deem Mary's far in excess of others though all, without exception, are woefully sad God knows.

One day a telephone call came to us from the city and county hospital, situated in a suburb known as The Potrero, inquiring if we had room for a delicate young mother with her three-weeks-old babe. They informed us that her time as a patient had expired and, moreover, that they had just been quarantined for smallpox, but that she had as yet suffered no exposure. The workers were quickly consulted, also a few trusted converted girls, and together we knelt in prayer and then consulted God's Word. Praise his name! we opened it on the ninety-first Psalm. What better assurance than in verses 10, 11, and 12?

Soon we were welcoming one of the most forlorn specimens of humanity the home had ever received. Jack, the delicate-looking baby, had the facial expression of a tiny old man, but oh! such beautiful eyes! We realized that both would require very tender care for some time to come. When Mary became able to work, she rendered valuable service, for she liked to cook and was efficient and economical. Whilst she was thus occupied, her babe was being well cared for in the nursery.

Several months passed by, during which every means was resorted to in order to help Mary learn to seek and find her Savior, but all without avail.

Little Jack, never very strong, was taken seriously ill and soon, from the waist down, was paralyzed. Mary now relinquished all other duties in order to nurse her sick treasure. We never witnessed greater love and devotion. For ten days before he died, she did not leave his bedside one moment longer than necessary, never changed her clothes, excepting once, and never lay down to sleep. On more than one occasion it became my privilege to share the night vigils, for which she was sincerely grateful. How my heart yearned for this poor, hopeless mother! How I longed to impart to her the secret of salvation and of the Burden-bearer!

"Mary," I said, "if you would only try my Savior, dear, I assure you that you would feel better, body and soul, I've never heard your story; won't you tell it to me whilst we're watching beside Baby?"

"I've never felt as if I could before, but I will, Mother Roberts, I will."

"I lost my father and mother when I was quite small, and my grandparents raised my little brother and me. I never remember when they didn't have beer on the table for dinner and supper, and if company came in, they always treated them. If I didn't feel quite well or was tired, Grandmother would say, 'Have a drop of beer, Mary child, it'll do you good and put new life into you.' It took some time to get used to liking it. I didn't enjoy the bitter taste at first, but by and by I loved it—yes, really loved it.

"I grew up, and, like many another girl, had my young friends come calling. I liked Tom S—— best of all, and one day promised I'd marry him if the old folks would agree. They were awfully pleased, and soon let Tom and me go about alone everywhere. He was a baker, and a good one. Earned fine wages, so that I was expecting to have a very comfortable home.

"I wish Grandmother or some one had talked plainly and honestly to me about a few things, but they didn't; so what did I know when Tom told me that in God's sight an engagement was as good as a marriage and that we'd soon, for the sake of appearances, and to comply with the law, go through that ceremony. My God! Why didn't some one warn me? Oh! Mother Roberts, very few girls loved a man better than I loved Tom.

"By and by Grandmother says, 'What's become of Tom? I haven't seen him lately. I didn't know he'd left his job.' So I told her his work was slack and he'd gone away to hunt a place where he could get better pay. You'll not be surprised to hear she soon grew suspicious, and one day I was obliged to confess.

"Did I tell you Tom drank beer? Oh yes, and enjoyed it with me and them many's the time.

"Was he a stranger to me and my folks when I first met him? Well, no, not exactly, although I must confess I knew very little about him before he was introduced by one of my girl friends at the baker's and confectioner's ball. Oh but he was an elegant dancer! and that got me, in the first place.

"My! but didn't Grandmother take on something awful! She ordered me out of her sight up to my little bedroom till Grandfather should come home. I sat there listening to her wailing and moaning and asking the dear Mother of God what she had done that such a cruel, cruel misfortune should have befallen her. Poor Granny! Mother Roberts, I was longing to go down and comfort her, but I durs'n't. So all that I could do was to walk the floor, or sit and cry. Sometimes I tried to tell my beads, but I couldn't take any pleasure in them. They didn't comfort my poor, sinful soul one bit. I wished I could die then and there, but what was the use? I couldn't, though I thought fear would indeed kill me when I heard Grandfather come in and knew Grandmother was telling him. I heard him raving and cursing while she was begging him to keep quiet for fear the neighbors would hear.

"Pretty soon he opened the door that led upstairs. 'Mary,' he shouted, 'you —- —— come down and be —— quick about it, I tell ye.' And when I did, he said, 'I'll see whether we'll own any one what will disgrace their poor, respectable, honest grandparents, what has brought ye up in the way ye should go, in their old age! Out ye go, and be —— quick about it.' I can see him now, and Grandmother, who was sitting at the kitchen table, sobbing with her head buried in her apron. I crawled on my hands and knees toward him; I begged him not to turn me out; I clung to him so that he could hardly walk, while he, in his rage, was backing along the hall out toward the front door, and then he managed to open it, me still clinging to him, and threw me, with a curse, out into the dark, cold, wet night.

"I lay there on the doorstep until I found I was getting a soaking, and then I went to a neighbor about a block away, who always had been very kind to me, and had a girl of her own a little younger than me. Did I tell her? Of course I did; I had to. So she took pity on me and let me sleep there that night on a shake-down in the parlor, although Mattie (her daughter) had a large bed to herself, and I told her not to go to so much trouble, that I could sleep with her as I'd done before, many's the time. But she said girls would get to talking, and she didn't want her innocent Mattie to know a girl could ever bring such disgrace on honest, respectable parents. But she didn't know how Mattie and I used to talk for hours after we'd get in bed at night, about our 'fellers' and such like, but now, who was I that I should tell her mother this?

"In the morning after breakfast (she kept Mattie out of sight somewhere) she took me into the parlor, shut the door, and said:

"'Mary child, I'm sorry for you, I am indeed, but I can't keep you here. You know where the county hospital is, don't you? Well, you go there, and they'll take you in. They'll take such cases as yours. Here's a quarter to pay your car fare. You needn't let on you stopped with me. You may be sure I won't, for I respect your Grandfather and Grandmother highly. I don't want them to find out I know anything about your trouble or that I took you in. Why, they'd never speak to me again. There, there, don't cry. Good-by and good luck to you, Mary.'

"I got on a car and pretty soon was asking the gate-keeper of the city and county hospital how I should apply to get in. 'Patient?' he asked. 'Yes, sir,' said I. So he directed me to the office. A lot of people were there, waiting their turn. After a while a doctor interviewed me in a little office. He asked me a good many questions. No, I didn't lie to him, but I told him as little as I could. He said, 'We can't take you in yet. Come on such a date,' and put my name on a book, then wrote on a card something about admitting the bearer, Mary H——, maternity ward, with his name and the day I was due there. I told him I'd no place to go; he said I was able to work for a while. So I went out to try and find some work. Before evening I got a job washing dishes and preparing vegetables in a small restaurant, for the sake of my board and bed, and I stayed there until it was time to go back to the hospital.

"I forgot all my troubles for a while when Jack came.... Mother Roberts, how can I think God is good? He's going to take my baby from me; he's going to let him die. I can't stand it. I'll kill myself—yes, I will...."

Two nights later little Jack still breathed, though scarcely perceptibly, and again I shared poor Mary's vigil. About midnight I asked if she felt able to finish her story. Presently she continued:

"When my little Jack was three weeks old, the nurse of our ward took down the card from the head of my bed, and told me I could go now. I was dismissed, and they wanted my corner for another patient.

"I stood outside the big gate that afternoon wondering where I could go and holding my pretty little Jack against my breast. I'd a nice warm shawl, so he was good and comfortable. A thought like this struck me. 'Grandfather is so fond of babies. I'll go there. Perhaps when he sees the dear, innocent little baby, he'll forgive me and take me back.' It seemed as though I would never reach their house [in the neighborhood of Sixth and Clara Streets, reader], and I had to rest on some one's doorsteps very often, I was that weak. It was pretty near dusk when I knocked on the door, and the fog was coming in. Grandmother opened it. She threw up her hands when she saw me; didn't ask me in, but hollered for Grandfather to come, and come quick, which he did. Oh! Mother Roberts, to my dying day I'll remember how he cursed me when he saw me and my baby's darling face, and then he closed the door with an awful bang. Well, I was dazed like for a little bit, then Baby cried. I sat on somebody's doorstep and nursed him, then kept on walking and resting; going, I hardly knew where.

"It must have been well after seven o'clock when I found myself on Montgomery Avenue and not very far from North Beach. My! but I was faint, although I'd had a good meal at the hospital at noon, but you know a nursing mother needs plenty of nourishing food and often. I saw a light in a little notion shop, and went in and asked the woman if she could spare me a bite to eat. Bless her kind heart, she gave me a big bowl full of bread and milk, and warmed some stew, and helped me make Jack clean and comfortable, but she had no place for me to sleep, which she told me sorrowfully. Her family was large, and she did not have a bit of extra bedding, besides she was poor. I was feeling better now and more cheerful. My! 'tis wonderful what a good meal can do for you when you're hungry, isn't it? I thanked her kindly and told her I'd soon find friends; then went out on the street and began to watch the faces. At last I stepped up to an elderly laboring man, told him I had lost my way, was broke, a stranger, and a widow, and asked him if he could direct me to a respectable lodging-house, which he did (bless his kind heart!) and paid the woman for a night's lodging, she asking no questions; and soon I was in a clean little bed with my Jack. I don't think my head had hardly touched the pillow when I was fast asleep, all of my troubles forgotten.

"Morning came all too soon. And now what was I to do? I dressed, then made baby as comfortable as I could under the circumstances, went down the stairs, meeting no one as I passed out of the house into the street. Pretty soon I'd made up my mind. I'd walk down to Meigg's wharf (not far away) and with my darling would drop quietly off the end of it into the bay; and I was soon looking into the nice quiet water, just about to fall in when I heard a voice, for sure I did, Mother Roberts, saying, 'Don't Mary.' Maybe you don't think I was scared as I looked all around and could see no one nearer than a block and a half away, and that was a man piling up some lumber on a wagon; besides, the voice I heard was a woman's, not a man's. I began to back away from the water, wondering if I'd heard an angel speak....

"Yes; I admit I am naturally superstitious, but don't you think in a case like this, it's a good thing?"

"Yes; I do, Mary, but go on, dear, I'm anxious to hear what became of you."



"I went back to the woman who gave me my supper, and she gave me my breakfast, then advised me to put my baby with the sisters of Mount St. Joseph. But I never could do that, could you? I said good-by to my kind friend and started out for where, I did not know. All of a sudden I said to myself, 'I'll go back to the hospital and offer to scrub and do chores; anything, so they'll take me and my baby in.' It took me till nearly one o'clock to reach there. Every time I sat down to rest and a policeman came along, I'd get up quickly and walk on, for fear he might arrest me as a suspicious character.

"The man at the gate didn't want to let me in; said they had been obliged to quarantine; but I rushed past him up to the office, threw myself at a doctor's feet, and begged him for God's sake not to send me away. He sent for the head nurse; they gave me my dinner, made Baby nice and clean and comfortable, and pretty soon one of the nurses came and told me they had found me and Baby a good home, and here I've been, as you know, ever since. But oh! Mother Roberts, my little Jack is going to die, he's going to die!...

"Four days since you opened your beautiful eyes and looked at Mother, Precious. Four long, long days....

"Mother Roberts, I think I would believe and trust God if he would only let my baby look at me once more before he goes. I really think I would."

"Kneel down with me, Mary, and we'll ask him," I said.

We clasped hands over the foot of that little bed, and if ever I prayed, I prayed then that the merciful Father would, for the sake of his Son our Savior, and for his own glory, open the eyes of the babe once more before the angels took him home. The poor worn-out mother sobbed herself to sleep, her head resting on little Jack's lifeless feet. I watched, earnestly and intently watched, for my prayer to be answered. Toward daylight I observed a slight movement of the little head. "Wake up! wake up, Mary!" I cried, whilst I shook and continued to shake her. The voice awoke many of the family, who quickly hastened to the sick-room. Mary with bloodshot eyes gazed at the baby. Soon his beautiful eyes opened wide, with a long, loving look at the faithful mother, then closed; and now the angels had him forever in their keeping.

"O God, O God, you are good, you are good," sobbed poor Mary. "I'll never, never doubt you any more." And she never did. From that day, and, so far as I know, up to the present time, Mary has been one of our Father's and Savior's loyal subjects.

As soon as able, she took a situation, so as to earn money to pay Jack's funeral expenses and to purchase the lot where lie his earthly remains. I was told that her mistress accepted the Savior because of her faithful daily walk. Later, her brother, returned from the Philippines, claimed and took her back there with him, where, doubtless, she is seeking and finding jewels for the Master's crown.

"What became of the grandparents—the ones responsible before God for her misfortunes?" During the first few weeks of Mary's stay under our roof, Sister Kauffman and I called on them, hoping so to picture the Savior's tender mercy and love as to be able to touch their hearts, to discover to them their self-righteous condition, and to get them to realize where the blame really lay. All our efforts were fruitless. The earthquake and fire of San Francisco swept away all their property, and in all probability they perished in the flames, for they were never again heard of.



CHAPTER XIII.

SERVICES IN COUNTY JAIL, BRANCH NO. 3.

Come with me this beautiful Sunday morning. Join with me and this faithful band of young workers from various denominations, in the nine o'clock services, and satisfy yourself as to the good they, by the grace of God, are able to accomplish.

Good morning, gate-keeper. Have the rest of the band arrived yet?

Yes?

Then we'll pass in.

We enter the beautifully laid-out grounds surrounding the women's quarters. What lovely lawns! What a variety of fragrant flowers! But we must hurry, for we can not afford to miss the services. We ascend the long flight of steps and are now greeted by the superintendent and his wife, the matron. Next we traverse a long, wide hallway. Turning to the left, we mount a few steps, and then come up against a solid iron double door. Through an aperture in one side of it we get a glimpse of the throng within. The door is unlocked for our admission, and, passing through, we find ourselves facing anywhere from forty to sixty girls and women, for the most part neatly attired in dark blue-print gowns.

"What a heterogeneous gathering we are confronting! Some look so refined; doubtless they are from the better walks of life. Why are they here?"

For offenses of various kinds too numerous to mention. "That dignified, white-haired woman, third row on our left?"

Ask me about her later on. I will tell you on our way home.

"That pretty fair-haired girl about sixteen?"

Vagrancy. Her sentence expires in two weeks. We're trying to persuade her to come to our home, because her own is undesirable. Both of her parents drink; her older sister has taken the downward course and refuses all our overtures; and her two brothers are constantly in drunken bouts and then imprisoned.

"That old, old woman; what of her?"

She's awaiting her trial for malpractice. She'll probably have to serve time in San Quentin penitentiary. But I'll tell you more by and by.

Brother Edstrom of the Y. M. C. A. speaks—"Let us all heartily join in singing, 'Pass me not, O gentle Savior,' Gospel Hymns No. 27." How they sing! and what beautiful voices some of the prisoners have!

"Brother St. John, will you lead in prayer?"

[Illustration: SHEET MUSIC

STILL NEARER

Words and music by Mrs. FLORENCE ROBERTS

(Illustration: music)

1. Oh, help me live near thee, my Savior, Oh, keep thou me 2. I love thee, my Fa—ther, and Sav—ior, For what thou hast

(Illustration: music)

close by my side; I need thee, Lord, dai—ly and hour—ly, done for me; Me, one of the great-est of sin-ners,

(Illustration: music)

My Coun-sel-or and my Guide. I can—not have thee too I mar—vel, such welcome from thee! Won-der—ful con-quest o'er

(Illustration: music)

near me, Ei-ther by day or by night; For when thou art nigh the Sa-tan's Al—lur—ing paths of sin; My Sav-ior, to thee the

(Illustration: music)

tempt-er doth fly, Thou dost help me to put him to flight, glo—ry all be, Now help me some lost ones to win.

REFRAIN.

(Illustration: music)

Near—er, still near—er, Come to me o'er and o'er.

(Illustration: music)

Near-er to thee, Sav-ior, I'd be, Now and for—ev—er—more]

Without exception all kneel as the consecrated young brother makes fervent, passionate appeal to the throne of mercy and grace.

"Will one of our congregation now call for a song?"

"No. 18."

"Very good, we will sing No. 18."

Rescue the perishing, care for the dying, Snatch them in pity from sin and the grave; Weep o'er the erring one, lift up the fallen, Tell them of Jesus the mighty to save.

You can't keep back the tears as you listen, and this is not to be wondered at.

"Sister Burton, we will now listen to your reading of the fifty-fifth chapter of Isaiah."

"Sister Roberts, I see you have your autoharp with you. Please favor us with one of your God-sent songs."

"Nearer, Still Nearer."

The prisoners sing refrain twice over with me and then request a repetition. It is inspiring to hear them, it surely is.

"We will now spend a few minutes in testimony. Who will be the first to witness for Jesus this morning?"

Three or four are on their feet at once, some thanking God that, even though they are behind prison bars, he has washed away their sins in the precious blood of Jesus, and declaring their intention of leading clean lives, lives that will honor the Lord; adding that they are asking him to give them honest jobs in respectable quarters, so that they need never again be obliged to return to their former environments of vice and degradation. And so on, until time for testimony is up.

"How many desire an interest in our prayers, that you may lead lives that will fit you for heaven instead of sending you down to an awful hell? Please raise your hands. One, two, three, six, ten; nearly all who have not testified. God bless you! Let us pray."

Brother Edstrom so earnestly petitions the loving Father for mercy and pardon for these poor souls that some of them weep audibly. Again we all join in singing; the benediction is pronounced; then those conducting the meeting repair quickly to the men's quarters in an adjacent but separate enclosure. There a similar service is held, after which the majority hurry away to the various houses of worship for the eleven o'clock services.

When not otherwise engaged, I find it pleasurable as well as profitable to linger, but on this occasion I shall not remain. As we walk along, I will keep my word concerning some of the inquired-about inmates.

The dignified, white-haired woman spends the greater part of her time in that prison-house.

She is addicted to the morphine habit, and, in consequence, she resorts to any means to procure the drug. It has made a petty thief of her, thus causing her frequent arrest and incarceration for three or six months.

She was the wife of a prominent professional man, and, so far as this world's goods are concerned, she enjoyed everything that a loving husband was able to lavish on her. At the time of, and following, the birth of her third child, the attending physician, in order to assuage her excruciating pain, administered morphine. She continued to resort to it, and soon she was its slave. Everything known to human skill was done to cure her of the habit, but without much effect. She began to inject the drug into her flesh with a hypodermic needle and also to mix it with cocaine. Thus she soon became a mortification to her husband, relatives, and friends, and erelong they felt that she had forfeited all claims to their consideration. They forsook her, absolutely refused to recognize her. In process of time the husband procured a divorce and sole guardianship of the children.

Soon she disappeared from her home neighborhood and for the future was lost sight of by all except police judges, and officers, prison companions, and habitue of morphine dens. Every home missionary I know of in San Francisco had made some attempt or sacrifice for the redemption of this unfortunate woman, but apparently with little, if any, effect. One day she told me that I was wasting my time, for she loved her drug better than her God. I wondered if she really meant it.

You ask if this is an exceptional case? Not by any manner of means. I am able to relate many others, all different in detail, but all alike in the main, the family physician being primarily responsible.

My heart goes out tenderly for the younger inmates of the prison, most of whom are there for a first offense, and who are now in great danger of contracting bad habits, such as cigarette-smoking, from older offenders. "What!" you exclaim, "do they permit women and girls to smoke?" I'm sorry to tell you it is only too true. Furthermore, the weed is procured from those in authority over them. And from that habit and others acquired during incarceration, deeper demoralization results, so that many come forth worse than they ever were before their imprisonment. Nevertheless, realizing the limitless value of even one soul, the home missionary keeps, ever keeps in view Gal. 6:9—"And let us not be weary in well doing; for in due season we shall reap, if we faint not."

With but very few exceptions the prisoners of both sexes admit that liquor or drugs, or both have cursed their lives, made every type of criminal out of them, forfeited them their liberty, some for life, aye, even life itself. I have dealt with some of the ones condemned to die. I learn this from their own lips.

When, oh! when will that awful octopus, that curse of the world be destroyed? When, oh! when will our lawmakers and our officers eliminate forever the accursed poisons that ruin men and women both physically and morally?

What chance do God's consecrated workers have, with this band of demons confronting them on every hand, dragging souls down to hell every hour of the day, yea, every minute?

'How long, O Lord, how long?' Psa. 94:3.



CHAPTER XIV.

LUCY—A REMARKABLE EXPERIENCE.

Following the services one Sunday morning, several of the inmates waited on me in a body. "Mother Roberts," the spokesman began, "there's a dying girl in one of the cells in the smaller dormitory. She's spitting blood something dreadful, and she's so bad. Bad and all as some of us are, we're scared the way she goes on. Her language is just awful! She never comes out to the services, yet she's been here for months. Says she has no use for 'them hypocrites,' and 'don't want none of 'em near her.' Says she'll curse 'em if they do come. Say, Mother Roberts, couldn't you make some excuse to get into her cell? We haven't the heart to see her deliberately go to hell."

For a few minutes silence reigned, whilst I thought and inwardly prayed. Then I felt it to be of the Lord to carry out an impression to walk quietly into her cell as though by mistake, trusting the Divine Director for results....

Propped up in one corner of her bunk, wrapped in grey blankets, reclined a hollow-eyed, ghastly-looking girl, gasping for breath. Some blood was trickling from the corners of her mouth. She glared at me, tried to speak, but failed. Quickly I took out my handkerchief, dipped it into the granite ewer close by, and wiped her poor face and mouth; then she whispered, "Again." Repeatedly this was done, the Spirit of God all this time impressing me not to utter one word aloud, yet giving me a wonderful, most blessed realization of his presence and power. After I had made her as comfortable as surroundings would admit, she presently slept. Then I quietly tip-toed out; exacted a promise from her companions not to reveal my identity, which promise they faithfully kept, though under difficulties; had a conference with Mrs. Kincaid, the matron; then went away.

I returned the following morning and for four more consecutive days. Still the dear Lord did not permit me to speak. On Friday afternoon as I was about to leave her (by the way, she had observed almost stolid silence so far), she called me to come back.

"What is it, dear?" I asked.

"Say, do you mind telling me who you are?"

"Why? Why do you wish to know?"

After a prolonged silence I once more was about to depart, but she called again:

"I'll have to say it."

"Say what, Lucy?"

"Say this: you act like a Christian."

Oh! praise God, praise God! the ice was broken, and my pent-up soul gave vent to a copious flow of refreshing tears, as I bowed in gratitude at that prison bunk, beside that wandering sick girl, and poured out my heart in earnest prayer for the dear Father to guide her into all truth, and to make me ever-wise in my administrations to the needs of herself and others. Then, kissing her on the brow, I left her.

[Illustration: SHEET MUSIC

WAS IT YOU?

Words and Music by Mrs. FLORENCE ROBERTS.

Some one spoke to me of Je—sus, Said he'd come to call on me, Some one told me how he suf-fered, Said, "For you and me he died." Some one gave the in—vi—ta—tion, And we bowed in humble prayer; Lov—ing Sav-ior, how I thank thee Some one came to me that day-Oh, I know that man-y oth—ers Would be glad if "some one" came.

Said no mat-ter how I'd fall—en, He from sin would set me free. "Does, oh, does he love so dear—ly? Tell me more of him," I cried. Soon I felt my sins for-giv—en; Thro' his grace I'll meet you there, Some one rep-re-sent-ing Je—sus, And I turned thee not a—way. Bring-ing lov—ing in—vi—ta—tion From their lives of sin and shame.

Some one told me how he loved me, And was knocking at my door; Some one told me he is com-ing Soon to take his loved ones home,— There in mansions bright with glo-ry. Oh,'tis won-der-ful to me Bless, oh, bless that loving some one, Sent by Je-sus Christ our Lord; In—to lives of peace and glo—ry, Thro' the blood of Christ the Lamb:

He had oft-en stood there plead-ing, Had been man-y times be-fore. Told me he was there to par—don, If I now to him would come. That the vil-est he is seek-ing From their sins to set them free! Help me, now that I am blood-washed, Wit-ness to thy precious word. Send me pray-ing, bless-ed Je—sus, With that song, "Just as I am."

Was it you? Was it you? Was it you?]

On the following Sunday I returned and found her eager to see me, also much improved in health. After our greeting she told me that she had been trying to discover who I was, but that no one would inform her. "Ain't they the limit?" was her smiling expression.

"You'll tell me, won't you? Say, who was that singing out in the big dormitory a while ago?"

"Every one was singing, Lucy."

"Oh, yes, I know, but I mean some one sometimes alone and playing something that sounds like a guitar-mandolin like we have at home?"

"Would you care to hear her?"

"Sure I would. Please go ask her to come in." Soon I returned with my precious little instrument.

"Is that it? Wouldn't she come?"

"Of course she would. Listen. Lucy."

* * * * *

Oh! those blessed tears she shed as she pillowed her head on my breast; those blessed, blessed tears!

"Come tomorrow, please come."

"God willing, Lucy, yes."

"Why do you say, 'God willing'? Of course he'll be willing."

And I went forth, scarcely able to contain myself for very joy.

The next morning I returned and spent many hours with this precious, very precious jewel. There was no longer any restraint. She listened eagerly whilst I imparted choice portions of the Word. (Reader, the utmost precaution had to be used, for she had not yet accepted her Savior. Believe me, there is danger of excess in surfeiting with the Bible. I lovingly admonish you to seek earnestly for divine wisdom with regard to dealing with souls. My lessons on those lines have thus far been dearly purchased; for I have ignorantly, zealously, made many mistakes, thus for the time being, hindered, more than aided their spiritual progress. To illustrate: A janitor's child has a toy broom. Papa has just swept one part of the hall and is about to remove the accumulated dust. "Papa, let me help you," and forthwith the child sweeps a large portion of the dust over the already cleaned floor. Papa sighs, sadly smiles, says nothing, but patiently proceeds to clean up again. Reader, I'm sure you see the point.)

Not many days thereafter, when Lucy was again able to be up and dressed, she asked me to pray for her, and before we rose from our knees, she knew my Savior was hers. Even so, yet she still smoked cigarettes. This grieved my soul, but I waited until of her own accord she inquired whether I thought it a sin to smoke. She excused herself on the plea that smoking quieted her nerves and also induced sleep. She told me, however, that she was now trying to curtail, as she had hitherto indulged in as many as twenty a day. I asked if she would wish her dear Redeemer to see her rolling and smoking cigarettes, referred her to Rev. 22:11, and soon, without further comment, took my departure.

She was able to attend services the following Sunday. I still see her eagerly absorbing everything said and sung. As soon as the meeting closed, she took possession of me, marshaled me to her cell, kissed and seated me, and then said:

"I want to tell you something so badly, I could hardly wait until the others were through. Mother Roberts, after you left last Wednesday, I got to thinking about my filthy habit, so I went on my knees, and did what you told me; I prayed, if it wasn't right, for God to make me hate it. My! but I was nervous an hour later, and had to have a smoke. I woke up in the night wanting another, so rolled my cigarette and was just in the act of lighting it when something seemed to say, 'Lucy, if you'll let it alone you shall never need one again!' I put out the match and lay down, but I couldn't sleep. I was that nervous; so I reached over to the window ledge, picked up my cigarette, put it between my lips once more and struck a light, when again I distinctly got that impression. Oh! but I was tempted, so for fear I would weaken I got out of bed, and with my bare feet crushed the dirty weed all to smithereens. I slept soundly till morning, and woke up smelling the odor of tobacco-smoke. Mother, I want to tell you the strange part of it; the smell actually made me sick at my stomach. How do you account for that? To be sure, I'm very nervous, but nothing on earth could tempt me to smoke again."...

Dear Lucy grew in grace very rapidly. Erelong she confided who her family were, also read me portions of their letters, and at her request I wrote to her mother, who soon replied at length.

The time was approaching when my dear spiritual daughter would soon have her freedom; but I learned that, for good and sufficient family reasons, it would be impossible for her to return to them for some time to come. The mother wrote, asking if it would be possible for me to assume temporary guardianship.

Owing to impaired health, I was not at this time residing at the Home of Peace, but instead was occupying quiet quarters in the cottage of a sister missionary, who was absent much of the time and who, in return for light services, gave me the use of a nice large room furnished for light housekeeping. I asked and obtained her permission to have Lucy share the room with me—this with the proviso that Lucy's identity be closely guarded. Also, I obtained sanction from the judge (who, when sentencing her, ordered her removed from San Francisco at the expiration of her term) to keep her with me, but under close surveillance.

Lucy joyfully placed herself in my keeping, without knowing what disposition was to be made of her. Frequently she petitioned to be lodged in my immediate neighborhood. In reply, I simply smiled. You can not imagine how much I was enjoying my delightful secret nor with what pleasure I prepared new clothing purchased with the money sent by her own dear mother. Lucy and I were now counting the days, soon the hours.

My pretty room, with its folding-bed, organ, sideboard, decorations of glass and chinaware, underwent, the day before her freedom, an extra cleaning in preparation for my guest, and I arose at three o'clock the following morning in order to add finishing touches and also to prepare for an immediate meal on our return. At five o'clock I boarded a car, which shortly before six landed me in front of the long driveway leading to the prison grounds.

Lucy was ready even to her hat and gloves. She was regaled with such remarks as, "Oh, but you're the lucky girl!" "Wish some one would take a like interest in me," "Come back and see us once in a while," or, "Won't you write me? It'll be such a comfort to hear from you, Lucy." Next she received very kind, parental advice from the Captain and Mrs. Kincaid. Then we went down the steps and terraced walks, the door in the prison wall swung wide open, and once more Lucy was free.

But why does she stand stock still? Why inhale such long, deep breaths?

"Isn't it lovely, Mother Roberts, lovely, lovely!"

"The air is just as fresh in the garden we have just left, Lucy dear."

"No doubt, but this is freedom! Praise God, this is freedom! Good-by [this to the guard on the lookout]. When I come again, it will be to preach the gospel. God bless you. Good-by. Come, Mother, I'm ready."

I was loathe to check her enthusiasm on the way home, but had to do so, in order not to attract the attention of the passengers. We reached our street. I opened the door with my latch-key, led the way up-stairs, entered my room, and bade her welcome in the name of the dear Lord. She had prostrated herself at my feet, but I quickly raised her, and we knelt in prayer and thanksgiving. It was worth all the gold in the Klondyke to me to hear that girl's prayer. She couldn't eat, and I didn't do much better. The rest of the day Lucy spent in writing a long, long letter to her parents. If I remember right, she covered thirty pages of ordinary letter paper.

Bedtime arrived.

"Where am I to sleep, Mother dear?" Lucy inquired. "With me, Lucy, here in the folding-bed," I answered.

"Mother, do you mean it? Would you let me sleep with you?"

"Why not, dear? You're my honored guest. You're my spiritual daughter. Jesus says, 'Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these, ye have done it unto me.' Don't you understand, Lucy? In entertaining you, I am entertaining Jesus."

"My! Mother, how you must love me! Oh but God will bless you for this!"

Sure-enough he has, over and over, countless times, aye, even up to the present moment. We shall hear more of Lucy in the next chapter.



CHAPTER XV.

WE PLAN FOR A HOME FOR RELEASED PRISON GIRLS.

Hours had slipped away. We had both been silent, but I wondered whether Lucy, like myself, was not sleeping, but simply resting quietly for fear of disturbing me. One-thirty, then two o'clock. I whispered:

"Are you asleep, Lucy?"

"No, Mother dear," she answered; "I haven't slept a wink for thinking of the goodness of God and wishing lots of other unfortunates had such good luck as me tonight."

"I also, Lucy; furthermore, I'm pondering how to proceed to procure them a home with nice large grounds in which they can work and take pleasure, but I haven't any means. All I now own is my bicycle. I left it for sale in Woodland. Perhaps God will soon find a purchaser; if so, I will take it as a sign that he wants me to travel from place to place in their behalf. Give me your hand, Lucy." She clasped mine under the covers whilst I prayed in a low tone, "Father, art thou impressing us to seek a home for the girls, a home removed from city temptations and environments? If so, I pray thee, seal the impression with thy Word. In Jesus' name I ask this"; and Lucy fervently echoed my Amen. Next I lighted the lamp on the little stand by our bed side, on which lay a writing tablet, a pencil, and my Bible. Reverently opening the latter, we found ourselves looking down upon Genesis, twelfth chapter, first and ninth verses. Thus did our Father seal the impression of the Holy Spirit with his Word. "We will prepare for a long trip, Lucy," I said, "and when we start we will journey toward the South."

Without further notification, I received by mail, within the following fortnight, a cheque for twenty dollars (purchase price of wheel). This amount procured us some necessaries, paid a few small bills and our fares to Redwood City, leaving us with the sum total of sixty cents.

Before proceeding on this undertaking, we occupied every hour of the day, with but few exceptions, in active preparation; our evenings and Sundays we spent in church or prison, or among the outcasts. I am indebted to Lucy for admission into many heretofore forbidden places, where she would be invariably welcomed with such a greeting as this:

"Well, hello, Kid! glad to see you. When did you get out? How's all the rest of them?"

"This is my dear Mother Roberts," she would say. "Please welcome her for my sake. I want to tell you I'm not one of you any longer. I've found my Savior. Don't I look different? Don't I look happy?"

"You bet yer life y' do, Kid. Say, we don't mind being preached to if you'll do the preaching. Go on girlie, pitch in, we-uns would like to hear from the likes of you, cause we know you," etc.

The precious girl! How she enthused all of us as she told the wonderful story and implored them to seek the Savior! Always we finished with prayer. Even bar-tenders, saloon-keepers, and women overseers over the girls in the various dives were touched by Lucy's brief messages from God. The time was all too short on these occasions. As we said our final farewells (July 1, 1903), it was impossible to count the number of those who said: "Y've done me good, Lucy, Y've done me good. Yes, I mean to heed what y've said. I know it's right. Stick to it, girlie, stick to it." And not a few said they had sold their last drink or had drunk their last drop.

I wish you could appreciate how wonderful all this is to me now (Sept. 5, 1911) whilst recalling and writing it, here in my quiet, pretty room in the Gospel Trumpet Company's home for their consecrated workers. It seems as though but a few days, instead of years, have elapsed since that marvelously profitable time.

In the interval between her coming to me and our departure we visited, as frequently as possible, the prison, the place of her incarceration. once taking a modest treat, purchased by a little of Lucy's pocket-money. I can not describe the appreciation of each prisoner as they received, at her hands, a small package of something toothsome done up in a pretty paper napkin, with an appropriate text inscribed thereon. This distribution was followed by a special meeting, for the most part conducted by my dear Lucy.

After the tearful farewells had been said, we went into Captain and Mrs. Kincaid's quarters, where the latter furnished us with the names of some for whom she desired our special interest in the event of our coming in touch with them. They were all ex-prisoners, some of whom we will hereafter mention.

As though to give us a specially bright send-off, the sun arose in glorious splendor on that second day of July. Following a very light early breakfast, Lucy and I, accompanied to the depot by some Christian friends, one of whom was the late Brother Mosby, soon boarded the train at Twenty-fourth and Valencia Streets, and in a short time arrived at Redwood City.

"What are we going to do next?" inquired Lucy. "You don't know any one here, do you, Mother?"

"No, dear. I'm going to ask the depot-agent if he can tell me who is the most consecrated Christian in this town."

Imagine, if you can, his astonishment.

"Say that over again, madam," he said.

I repeated my inquiry, whilst he scratched his head and pondered over this simple but no doubt perplexing question, and also glanced at us as much as to say, "I wonder if you are altogether right in your minds?"

Leaving in his keeping our two telescope baskets, containing all our earthly belongings, we soon reached the residence of the Congregational minister, only to discover that he, with his family, had left that very morning for his summer vacation. His neighbors directed us to the Methodist minister, an old gentleman, who received us very cordially, said many encouraging words on learning of the nature of our errand, and wished us God's blessing as we took our departure to the next place, at that moment unknown.

I now decided to make our errand known to the editors of the local papers. We found two, in close proximity to each other. They received us kindly, inspected the letters of endorsement with which I had provided myself before leaving San Francisco, and took notes.

Noon-time found my faith not sufficient to invest our capital or even a portion of it for the food we now so much needed. Moreover, it was extremely warm, and we were clad in heavy garments, suitable to the colder climate from which we had come. I made the same inquiry of the editor of the Gazette as I had made of the depot-agent, and I shall never forget the editor's surprised smile as he replied: "Really, Mrs. Roberts, I'm the last one of whom to inquire, as I make no profession whatsoever of religion. There is a lady living on the edge of town, formerly of the Salvation Army; she might do."

It was a long walk, or rather seemed so. We soon discovered that this lady was in no position to entertain us over night, and as it was long past noon, she must have taken it for granted that we had dined. Before leaving I requested a season of prayer. Her aged mother preceded her, I followed, then Lucy, who drew tears from our eyes by her fervent petition for guidance. After we had made our adieus and had walked a few yards, the daughter called and ran after us, to inform us that she had just thought of the landlady of the Tremont Hotel (Mrs. Ayers). "Her dining-room is closed for the season. She is a very kind-hearted woman. I have no doubt of her inviting you to remain under her roof when she learns your errand," said this newly-found friend. I thanked her most sincerely, and we proceeded once more to town.

I again called upon the Gazette editor, for I had it in mind to hold a street-meeting that evening and make public announcement of our errand. He promised the presence of himself and of others in the event of my doing so.

"Mother dear," inquired poor, tired, hungry, over-heated Lucy, "I wonder if God really wants us to hunt a home for the girls, after all? I can't stand much more."

"Neither can I, dear child," I replied, "but we'll ask him. Give me your hand." (We were walking toward the hotel.)

"Father," I prayed, "hast thou sent us on this errand? If so, please seal it with money before the day ends. I ask in Jesus' name." And Lucy sighed, "Amen."

May God forever bless dear Mrs. Ayers, who cordially welcomed us, giving us one of her best rooms and expressing her regret for inability to supply meals; God abundantly bless her and her dear ones.

We shut ourselves in, knelt together at the bedside, and wept—wept tears of gratitude, hope, and joy. Still weeping, both of us, in broken language, thanked the One who never makes any mistakes for guiding us aright and raising up friends in our trying hour, and closed our prayers by imploring his pardon for our having not better stood his testings and by promising with his aid to be braver in the future.

I now invested a quarter to have our baggage immediately brought from the depot, then refreshed ourselves, and soon I crossed the street, returning presently with a nice fresh loaf of bread and a dime's worth of bologna. On these and water, we humbly, gratefully dined. I have partaken of many costly, delicious viands, but never in all my experience have I enjoyed a meal as I did that simple one. Hallelujah!

The sun was gradually disappearing when Lucy and I crossed the street and stood on the corner in front of Mr. Behren's bank. We had carried one of the hotel chairs over with us, for I have never yet learned to play on my autoharp while standing. I now sat at a convenient angle in the street. Lucy composed one of my audience on the sidewalk. At first I felt somewhat timid and very nervous, but not for long. While the crowd was gathering, I sang the song,

I know my heavenly Father knows The storms that would my way oppose But he can drive the clouds away And turn my darkness into day.

The people gathered so fast that before I had finished the second verse I was well surrounded.



There was a fair sprinkling of women, also carriages. Before singing another song, I took advantage of the situation to tell my audience why I was in Redwood City and on that street corner. If God ever gave me liberty of speech this was the occasion. After I had finished my address, which was not very long, one of my audience, named Lewis as I soon learned, stepped forward, took off his hat, and spoke as follows:

"Ladies and Gentlemen: I for one am convinced of this stranger's earnestness and the needs of such a home as she desires to get. Let's give her a collection. We're going to squander lots of Fourth of July money day after tomorrow. Here's my quarter, whose next?"

The money kept dropping, dropping, dropping into that hat, nickels, dimes, quarters until the sound made me nearly shout for joy. It was all I could do to contain myself.

Then some one in a carriage sent a request for me to sing again. I gladly responded, after which my audience bowed with uncovered heads whilst I thanked the loving heavenly Father and pronounced the benediction. Thus gloriously ended my first street meeting conducted without other human aid.

We were the happy possessors of $13.20 toward the fund for the promised home, and no mortals on earth retired that night more grateful and happy than dear Lucy and her "Mother" Roberts. To God be all the glory and praise forever.



CHAPTER XVI.

SANTA CLARA EXPERIENCES. THE SAN JOSE HOME.

All the next day we remained in Redwood City in anticipation of receiving mail, and our hopes were realized. There were letters of cheer and encouragement from Mrs. Dorcas Spencer, State Secretary W.C.T.U.; Mrs. Augusta C. Bainbridge, State Superintendent Purity W.C.T.U.; Mrs. Elizabeth Kauffman, matron of the Home of Peace; the chaplain of the Sailors' Home, in which place I had held frequent meetings; Mr. and Mrs. George S. Montgomery; Judge George Cabaniss; Captain and Mrs. Kincaid, the superintendent and matron of the county jail, Branch No. 3, and other friends alike interested. Also, Lucy heard from her people. It gives me pleasure to copy one of my letters:

622 Golden Gate Avenue, San Francisco, Cal June 30, 1902.

Mrs. Roberts.

My dear Sister:

How I do praise the Lord for laying that burden on you! I have prayed for it so long. I knew he would lay it somewhere soon. The Woman's Christian Temperance Union have a special department for jail work, and some lovely Christian women in charge. The State, county and local superintendents of jail, hospital, purity, mother's work, evangelistic and other departments would be glad to help you. I am State superintendent of purity. Let me know now I can help you.... If you want the directory you can get it at headquarters, 132 McAllister Street. You can show this letter to either of the ladies there, and they will know I endorse you and your work....

Yours in love,

A. C. Bainbridge.

We decided to go to Santa Clara on the morrow. Accordingly, the next day we were mingling with a great throng of merry-makers—with them, but not of them.

Mr. Lewis' mother, with whom we had dined the previous evening, had recommended a certain private boarding-house. Hither we repaired, and were fortunate in finding a Christian hostess, who made us very welcome. Lucy helped her, she having a great Fourth of July crowd for meals, whilst I rested.

On the following day I went forth in quest of means to help swell the fund started in Redwood City. I walked and talked all day; toward evening I returned to our boarding-house with only a poor report. Lucy greeted me cheerfully and said:

"I'm going to earn your board and mine, Mother dear. The landlady needs help; so as long as we're here, it will not be necessary to touch the fund. You needn't think you are to bear all the burden. No, indeed. I'm going to do my part, too."

"God bless you, Lucy! I'm so thankful!" I replied. "How good the dear Lord is and how wonderfully he provides!"

At the end of nearly a week of toil, I had apparently made little impression. One night as I sat in our room, too tired to go to the dining-room, Lucy came in, took off my shoes and stockings, cried over the swollen, blistered condition of my feet, bathed them, made me retire, and brought to the bedside a tempting meal.

The next day, after making a few calls and receiving some small sums by way of encouragement, I felt impressed to return to our room and then go to a handsome home directly across the street from the boarding-house. Soon I was ringing the bell. A lady greeted me with a lovely smile, bade me enter, and encouraged me in making known my errand. Calling her husband, she asked me to repeat my story. When I took my departure, after receiving overwhelming kindness and a cordial invitation to return when convenient, I held in my hand my first gold piece for the fund. The donors were Mr. and Mrs. Chas. E. Moore, who have been my warm, interested, personal friends from that time to this. They did all in their power to aid me, particularly through introductions to people of means in their home town.

Soon I was led to make myself known to the pastors of the various churches, one of whom agreed to give me an opportunity of addressing an audience from his pulpit. His name was Thurston, and I shortly learned that he was a nephew of the people with whom I had traveled in gospel-wagon work. The following notice in the Santa Clara News of July 7, 1903, heralded the prospective meeting:

FOR A RESCUE HOME

Mrs. Florence Roberts, who is known in San Francisco as the Rescue Missionary and Singing Evangelist, will address the public in the Baptist church next Sunday on the subject of the establishment of a non-sectarian home for women near San Francisco.

She comes highly endorsed by prominent citizens and Christian societies. There are, she states, thirty-five thousand women on this coast to be reached, and she is endeavoring to procure funds for a home to which they can come for reformation. A free-will offering will be taken at the conclusion of the address.

Prior to this meeting I learned of a little rescue home in San Jose, the adjacent city, and one afternoon Lucy and I visited it. We went without previous announcement, for I wanted to satisfy myself as to its merits. It was a pretty old-fashioned cottage of about eight rooms, located at 637 East St. John Street. There were but two girls—one a mother, the other a prospective one—and, sad to relate, a most inefficient matron. I quickly took in the situation, and, for the sake of the inmates, privately decided to accept erelong her invitation to sojourn temporarily under that roof.

After I had thoroughly canvassed Santa Clara, I, acting upon divine directions, took Lucy and went to the San Jose rescue home.

Before long it became my sorrowful duty to report conditions as they existed. The president of the board of managers, Rev. J. N. Crawford, was absent on his summer vacation. Upon learning that the vice-president, Mrs. Remington (now deceased), was sojourning in San Francisco, I boarded the train and a few hours later was in earnest discussion with Mrs. Remington and her friend, Miss Sisson. This consultation terminated in their sincere plea for me to take upon myself certain responsibilities, concerning which I promised to pray. The result was that I felt led to go further south for a while, but not before some better conditions existed for those two poor girls and others who might follow.



CHAPTER XVII.

CALLIE'S WONDERFUL STORY.

One day while I was visiting Mr. and Mrs. Helms, Sr., in Santa Clara, good friends of the cause, the latter said:

"Sister Roberts, have you ever met Callie——?"

"No, Sister Helms," I answered, "but I have heard of her. She was often, before my missionary work there, an inmate of the county jail, Branch 3, and gave much trouble when a prisoner."

"I want to let you know she is wonderfully converted and one of our most remarkable missionaries. Try and take time to call on her. She works in the R—— boarding-house and will be glad to see you, for she knows of you quite well. Ask her to tell you her story. You never heard anything equal to it; furthermore, you never have, I doubt ever will, meet any other like her. She is a living marvel of God's power to save to the uttermost."

The following afternoon, leaving kind-hearted Lucy (without offense to the matron of the home) to administer to the comforts of the inmates, I went to the place designated. Soon there came into my presence a smiling, healthy-looking woman about forty years of age, who told me that she was the person for whom I had inquired. No sooner did I mention my name than she threw her arms about me exclaiming, "God love you, Mother Roberts! God love you! It's good for sore eyes to see you"—and she rattled on. When I told her the nature of my errand, she replied that she would come to the home that evening and would then relate the story of her life and wonderful conversion. She was on hand at the appointed time, and soon Lucy and I were listening to what I will now relate.

"I first saw the light of day in the slums of St. Louis, Mo. I never knew, nor did any one ever tell me, who my father and mother were. All I know about those days and up to my fourteenth year is that one or another of the women of that neighborhood fed, clothed, and sheltered me. I had no schooling; didn't know how to read or write till a few years ago. I never heard much besides bad language, seldom saw anything but drinking, gambling, and so forth; never saw the inside of a church and seldom saw the outside, 'cause I wasn't out of my own neighborhood very much. It was too much like a fish being out of water. Never heard the name of God or Jesus Christ except when they were taken in vain, and never troubled my head to find out who was God or who was Jesus Christ.

"Before I was fifteen years old, I married a gambler. He was a fine-looking fellow, considerably older than me, and sometimes had a pile of money.

"Yes, he gave me what I asked for. Sometimes I spent quite a bit on dress and treating my friends, 'cause there ain't a stingy bone in my body. I've no use for stingy folk, have you?

"Tom wasn't a heavy drinker, but he used to 'hit the pipe.'"

"What is 'hit the pipe', Callie?" I inquired.

"Don't you know? Why, smoke opium. Also, he had the morphine habit, and if anything, that's the worst one of the two, but, between you and me, there's little or no choice. It wasn't long before I, too, commenced taking morphine, and kept it up until two years ago. Look here!"

With that she stripped up the sleeves of her dress, and we were gazing at arms which from the shoulder to wrist were one mass of tiny bluish spots. I doubt if there was room to place a pin between them.

"Oh! Callie, what are they?"

"Shots—shots from the hypodermic needle that we used to inject the morphine.

"Hurt? No, not much; besides, we get to be such slaves to it that we'd gladly hurt our bodies for the sake of it. It's the most demoralizing, hard-to-break habit on earth. But glory to God! I'm saved and sanctified now, and I'll tell you how it came about.

"I suppose I'd been serving my fifteenth sentence, to say the least, in Branch No. 3, and they'd put me down in the dungeon, as usual, as they most always had to do for the first few drays, 'cause I wanted the drug so bad (they give you some there, but it never was enough) that I used to disturb everybody, and besides, was very troublesome. I'll never forget the day when I tried to knock my brains out on the dark cement floor, but couldn't; so I cried, 'O God! if there is a God, and some of these missionary folk that come here say there is a God, and a Christ what can save, save me, save me, please save me! I don't want to go to hell! I've had hell enough! I don't want to go to hell!'

* * * * *

"There was a little quiet-looking old lady visiting the jail that day, and she asked Matron Kincaid if she couldn't go down and try to help that poor afflicted soul in the dungeon, and Mrs. Kincaid gave permission.

"Mother Roberts, her very presence was soothing, and pretty soon she put her arm around me and prayed. Oh, how she prayed to her God and Savior to come, and come quickly, to help and save me through and through! By and by she told me of Jesus who died for sinners. I couldn't bear to part with her, but I had to let her go soon, she promising to come back again. I was still suffering, but after hearing her, and her being so kind to dirty, loathsome me, I made up my mind I'd try to 'grin and bear' the misery if it took my very life.

"Next time she came, I was out of the dungeon, up on the next floor in my cell. Say, Mother Roberts, you wouldn't have known me if you had seen me then and as I look now. I didn't weigh ninety pounds. Now I weigh close onto one hundred and seventy. Praise the Lord!

"I was always a mass of filth and rags whenever the cops [police] would run me in.

"What did they arrest me for? Why for stealing of course. We'll swipe anything to supply ourselves and our chums with 'dope' [morphine, cocaine, opium, etc.]. That last time I'd been sentenced for three months. When my time was up, my missionary friend called for me, and we came down on the train to San Jose. She hired a hack at the depot; wasn't she considerate? God bless her!

"When we reached this home, the matron [Sister Griffith] met me at the door, and, said she, 'Welcome, dear child, welcome in the name of the Lord.' Then she put her arm around me, and led me into this very room we are sitting in now. I fell in love with her right on the spot. She had a lovely face and the beautifullest white hair I ever saw.

"I asked her to please let me go to bed, and would she gave me a room where I couldn't escape; also to please take away all my clothes, all but the bedding and a nightdress. I told her I'd come there to fight it out, that I'd been in hell on earth for years, that for twenty-seven years I'd been a 'dope' fiend, and that I wanted all of them who knew how to pray to pray for me, 'cause I knew there was a Christ and a God, but I hadn't found him yet. She did as I asked, and after a while tried to get me to eat, but I couldn't. Did you know the 'dope' fiends lose their appetites for everything but the drug? Yes, they do. I often wondered what kept us alive. It surely wasn't the food we ate.