"My, what a struggle I had! what a fight for the next three weeks! for I was determined from the time my sentence expired, never, if it killed me, to touch the poison again, and I was bound to keep my word. God alone knows what I suffered. One morning a little before daylight (I'd heard the clock strike one, two, three, somewhere) all of a sudden the room was lit up with a strange soft light, and somebody was whispering (or it seemed like whispering), 'Daughter, be of good cheer. Thou art healed.' Oh but I felt beautiful, beautiful! and soon slept the sweetest. Not an ache or pain. Just like a new-born baby. When I woke up I could tell the girls were at breakfast. I took my stick and knocked on the floor. Pretty soon Sister Griffith came up, and I told her. She cried with me for very joy, and knelt by my bedside to thank God for answer to prayer, then went down to tell the family. Glory, glory be to God the Father, Son and Holy Spirit! I was saved and I knew it—saved through and through.



"From that on I gained rapidly, enjoyed my meals, and pretty soon was able to go down-stairs. No fear any more. I've never wanted the drug from that day to this, and I'm trying by the grace of God to help other poor souls like afflicted. Say, Mother Roberts, when you go to San Francisco again, will you let me go with you? I want to surprise the folk at the jail and in the morphine dens; besides, I'll show you a place you never have seen or heard tell of, where these poor souls live—a place condemned by the authorities, but not torn down yet."

I told her that, God willing, I should be very glad to have her accompany me. Then she took out of her pocket a letter, saying, as she did so, "I wrote this to some one you know." (Here she described one of the poor prisoners.) "You can take it up to your room and read it if you like, and mail it for me tomorrow, please."

Soon we joined the rest of the family in their evening devotions, and Callie went back to her place.

I read and reread that wonderful letter before retiring, and as soon as convenient the next morning I telephoned to Callie to ask whether I might copy it before mailing it. She gladly gave me permission, and now I give you the letter almost word for word:

San Jose, Cal. Aug. 18, 1903.

Dear Nan:

No doubt you will be somewhat surprised to receive this from me, but it is surprising—and wonderful the way God has of lifting us up out of sin. Now what has been done for me will be done for you if you will only let him have his way with you. Surely "the way of the transgressor is hard," and the devil is a poor pay-master. I know you are so tired of that life that you will be willing to say, "O Lord, anything but this; 'better a dry crust of bread with quietness than a house full of sacrifice, with strife.'" The truth is a bitter pill, and many have choked to death on it, but while "the mourners go about the streets," the truth goes on just the same. Now my greatest sacrifice was — —. With him the house was full of strife, for I had to produce for it all, and no peace in the end; so to get away from the whole thing and keep out of San Quentin [one of the State prisons] I had to not only die to him, but myself. So now, glory to God! I am sanctified and my sins and dead yesterdays are under the blood, and Just as the branch is to the vine, I am joined to Christ and I know he is mine.

Nan, as I look back to Mrs. J——'s time [a former jail matron] and the hell we had, trying to live through, and of poor Minnie B—— and Minnie E——, who have gone out in the darkness—[Minnie B—— was dead, Minnie E—— dying, when the trusty rushed into the room where the matron, Mrs. J——, was engaged in a game of cards, and begged her to come quickly, to which she replied, "Let her die; 'tis a pity a few more of you don't go the same way" and then coolly continued the game she was playing.] If we had continued along on that plane, such would have been our fate also; but he, our Lord, is so patient and long-suffering that the moment we are willing to give up and let him have his way with us, then the work begins for our good. Now, Nan, I am only too glad to be able to help you in any way I can.

I owe the H—— of T—— $10. I stole $40 for "dope" from them while in the "hypo" state. I have now paid back $30, and when your time is up, I will be able to pay your fare down here, and your board until you can see and know for yourself what real liberty there is in Christ.

Everything did not go just as I liked at first; but, as you know, a good thing is not easily gotten, and if you will only try half as hard for liberty in Christ as you do for those you love, it will not be long ere you are out and out for Christ, and your dead yesterdays will be as though they never had been, and if you will let me be a mother to you, I would divide my last drop of blood to save your soul.

O God! bless my erring sisters, "who love not wisely, but too well, bearing their sorrows alone in silence with an anguish none can tell." Now, dear, weigh this well, and "choose this day which you will serve,'" God or mammon. T am not the only "hypo" fiend that the Lord sees fit to take out of hell; so be of good cheer, for he has said, "I will never leave thee nor forsake thee."

Start in with a fervent prayer, saying, "Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me." Just as soon as you are willing to take your Savior for your satisfying portion every door of hope will be open to you with outstretched arms. My strength is in God and I want you to feel some of it. I do not know the extent of it.

Poor M—! I feel sorry for her. Mrs. Roberts called on me. She is O K, and her heart is in her work. Dear child of God, she is sowing seeds of kindness all along her line. May God bless her! The little lady who is with her [Lucy] speaks highly of you. Nan, and we all see the Lord in you if you will only give up all to him. Tell Mrs. —— I still have faith for her [the dignified-looking white-haired prisoner already spoken of], for God is still looking around for the impossible things, to move mountains. Love to K—, G—, Mrs. S—, Mollie R—, and all the rest of the girls.

Now, Nan, we have seen the tough side of life together, so come on out and up, and say, "With the help of God I will be a woman." That is not your element by right, Nan, so the sooner you seek, the sooner you will find.

Now, good-by, and may God and his holy angels guide and protect you, and may your whole spirit, soul, and body be preserved blameless until the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ.

Give my love to all the girls. I pray for you all every day.

Callie ——

P.S.—To Mrs. Captain Kincaid. I know you will be happy to know I am still true to God. It pays in the end for if we sow to the flesh, we reap corruption, and if to the Spirit, everlasting life. I am a Bible student, and as soon as the Lord can trust me with the seal of the Holy Spirit, I am to preach the gospel of Jesus Christ, the power of God unto salvation Glory, glory, glory for liberty in him!...

I still have your present in mind. It is forthcoming in the near future.

Respectfully yours,

Callie ——.

The only alterations I made in this remarkable letter were in some real mines, the spelling, capitalization, and punctuation. Otherwise it is her language, word for word.

Oh! bless the dear Lord forever! What an example of

"Whilst the lamp holds out to burn, The vilest sinner may return"!

Later we paid our proposed visit to San Francisco. Our experience on that occasion will be found in the next chapter.



CHAPTER XVIII.

CALLIE AND I VISIT THE JAIL, MORPHINE DENS, AND THE MISSION—THE OUTCOME.

Some time elapsed before we took that trip together. I have much to relate regarding the occurrences during the interval, but first let me write about our San Francisco trip.

Shortly before Christmas occasion required my presence in San Francisco. I notified Gallic, and one morning bright and early we reached that city. We immediately repaired to Branch No. 3.

(Before I give an account of our experiences, please allow me to relate an incident that occurred on the train. In a seat almost parallel with the one we occupied sat two women, one of whom was richly dressed. She repeatedly looked my way. Her face seemed familiar. Presently I ventured to accost her with that fact. She smilingly replied: "Of course it is. I'm —— ——. You came to my house in Santa Cruz dressed in a Salvation Army bonnet. If it hadn't have been for that, you would never have got in. One of my girls left because of what you said and did that day. I'll be glad to have you call. I always want to help save a girl if I can. Perhaps you can persuade her sister." Hallelujah! "It came to pass" less than a month later.)

The gate-keeper passed us into the grounds, and soon I was being warmly greeted by Mrs. Kincaid. Presently I inquired if she recognized my companion. She smilingly shook her head.

"You've met her many times, Mrs. Kincaid," I said.

She guessed any but the right person. Finally she said slowly:

"It might be Callie——; but she was nothing but a bag of bones; as forlorn-looking a specimen of humanity as I ever looked upon, whereas this woman is fine-looking, robust, and has a splendid expression. Surely it can't be Callie!"

"But it is Callie. Look!" And Callie proved her identity by pulling up her sleeve—convincing evidence beyond a doubt. Never did I see matron more delighted. Presently, following some rapid questions and answers, she said, "How would you like to surprise your former companions, Callie?"

"Just what I was hoping for, Mrs. Kincaid," Callie answered.

"Very well; I'll have all of them called into the large dormitory. You wait here a few minutes."

There was an enthusiastic welcome for me, but no one recognized my companion—no, not one. She stood beside me, speechless and trembling. Finally I said:

"Speak to them, dear."

"I can't," she whispered, and the tears were in her eyes.

"Girls, I've brought some one with me today whom you all know and know well, but I see you do not recognize her." (A long silence.)

"Who is she?" some one asked. (Another long silence.)

"Show them who you are, Callie."

"Callie? Callie ——? Surely not, Mother Roberts. She was," etc., etc.

But she was showing them; choking down her sobs of joy, or rather, trying to, as she rolled up her sleeves to convince them. Even so, they found it very difficult to believe, very, very difficult.

I gladly retired to a remote part of the dormitory, a grateful observer temporarily forgotten, whilst Callie was being questioned and overhauled by about seventy delighted women and girls. They went into raptures of joy, they shouted, they wept, they hugged and kissed her, until she was obliged to say, "Sit down. I want to talk to you. Do, please."

Intense silence reigned whilst she related the wonderful story of her conversion and sanctification. There was not a dry eye present. Then she gave an invitation. Without one exception all responded and then knelt. She prayed—oh! how she prayed! and some of the women wet the boards with their tears whilst they, too, called upon Callie's Savior for pardon and mercy. How I wish we might have stayed there the remainder of the day! but we could not, for my time was limited. Feelingly and reluctantly we said our "farewells," promising to come at some future time if God so willed.

Before we left, they all lovingly inquired for Lucy, sending her many kind messages of love and remembrance.

When we returned to Mrs. Kincaid's quarters, she inquired if I should like to see a photo of Callie as she formerly looked?

"Indeed, I would," I replied.

Well, to this day I do not wonder at their failure to recognize her. In that picture she looked like a dirty, emaciated, old vagabond. This is the best I can do in the way of description, dear reader. I wish I had a copy of her "Before and After" to put in this book. You would be sure to say, "Mother Roberts did not exaggerate one iota." If any of you know Mrs. Kincaid, go to her and ask her whether she won't please show it to you....

We were soon on the street-car, and then downtown, where I quickly transacted my business, after which I was once more at Callie's disposal.

I followed her to a place on the south of Market Street, to a building which resembled a deserted, tumble-down stable or blacksmith's shop plastered with old hand-bills and posters. There were some dirty old window-frames in the second story, but I do not believe there was one whole pane of glass left.

"This is the place, Mother Roberts," said Callie.

"Surely no human beings dwell in such a terrible place as this, Callie," I replied.

"You come with me and see for yourself," she rejoined. "Don't you remember what I told you? I said I would take you to a place you didn't dream existed. This is the one."

Sure enough. And this was once her home! She opened a disreputable door, and we climbed a dirty and fearfully rickety stairway; next we groped our way along a dark passage. "Mind, there's a broken board! Look out you don't break your ankle," said Callie. She spoke none too soon. I narrowly escaped an accident. Now we turned a corner and got a little better light, this disclosing another old partly-broken-down stairway with nearly all the balustrade gone. Up these we climbed, hugging, as we did so, the filthy wall, for safety. On reaching the top she rapped gently an a cracked door, but received no answer. She rapped louder. Still no answer. Presently some one called from somewhere below. Then she rapped still louder. This time a man's voice inquired, "Who's there?" There was the sound of shuffling footsteps, and then the door opened, disclosing two women, one young, one old, and three men, all young, but all old-looking, cadaverous, starved, ragged, filthy, and indescribably loathsome. Furthermore, the odor issuing through that open doorway was almost intolerable.

Callie knew all, with the exception of the young girl, and called each by name; but, as usual, they did not recognize her, and, in the same manner as heretofore described, had to be convinced, whilst she again rehearsed her wonderful experience. Presently she said: "I'm going to hunt up some of the others, and I'm going to ask this lady to sing for you while I am gone. She's brought her autoharp with her."

[Illustration: SHEET MUSIC

THE SONGS MY MOTHER SANG.

Words and Music by Mrs. FLORENCE ROBERTS.

DUET Or SOLO.

1. One day I found a precious book Containing many a gem Of song my mother used to sing It takes me back again Across the vista of the years, When, by her loving voice, Melodious invitation came To make the Lord my choice.

2. She sang about the previous blood Christ shed on Calvary; And how, to save our souls from hell, He died in agony. "Come, sinners, to the gospel feast" Methinks I hear her still Singing, as silently she prayed "Lord, break that stubborn will."

3. This blessed soldier of the cross To her reward has gone; But oh, the tender memories She left in sacred song. And, tho' I wandered far from God, And wasted many years, The songs my mother used to sing Will oft-times bring the tears.]

Up to this time I had not uttered a word. The scene had practically rendered me temporarily speechless; but now I took a few steps into the room, whilst one of the men found an old soap box and turned it upside down for me to sit on. At a glance I saw vermin crawling in the cracks of the filthy floor. Oh! it was awful! Soon, however, I lost sight of my loathsome surroundings, for in answer to silent prayer the dear Lord was giving me a message in song. Never was there closer attention than while they listened to the song which you will find between these pages, entitled "The Songs My Mother Sang." Then I knelt and prayed, and prayed. "On that dirty floor?" you ask. Yes, dear reader; I quite forgot the dirt and the vermin. I only saw souls going to hell if they didn't get help from God. (Afterwards I observed that neither vermin nor dirt clung to me.)

When once more conscious of my surroundings, I discovered how dirty their faces were, for now there were clean channels on many cheeks. Their tears! One girl and two men agreed to forsake sin, and I was happy in the thought of conveying her to San Jose on our return next day, whilst Callie planned for the men. We did what we could for the time being and then went out into the fresh air. I asked Callie how many lived under that roof. To my amazement, she said, "All told, about forty just at present."

Her next mission was to the various places from which she had pilfered, and they were many. One was a harness-shop. She addressed the old man thus:

"How d'you do, sir? Do you remember me?"

"No, mam, I don't. Who are you?"

"I'm a woman who once stole a dog collar from you while your back was turned. I've come to pay for it. I'm converted now, but I used to be a 'dope' fiend."

"You were? You don't look like it."

"No, because God, for Jesus Christ's sake, forgave all my sins, cured me of all my bad habits, and has set me on the solid Rock, and I'm on my road to heaven. When you knew me I was on my road to hell."

"But I never knew you."

"Yes, you did. I'm Callie ——."

"What! You don't say so! Well, well! wonders will never cease. It's enough to make a man believe there is a personal God, I declare it is!"

Callie availed herself of this opportunity, and when we left there, the harness-maker had promised to serve her wonderful Savior and he kept his word.

Next we visited the rescue home, where we were received with open arms by dear Sister Kauffman. After having a precious time with her family and partaking of her hospitality, we went down-town again. There we spent a glorious evening at a street-meeting. Callie testified. Afterward we went to the Emmanuel Gospel Mission, where she gave a message from that most precious parable, "The Prodigal Son." When the invitation was given, the altar filled with seekers, most of whom went from there with victory in their souls.

We were the guests of the mission superintendent and family over night. Callie was my room-mate. Then it was that I saw what the hypodermic needle had done for her. There was no place (save down her spine) that was not marked, and no wonder, she had been a morphine slave for twenty-seven years—its abject slave.

The next morning, as soon as we could politely leave our kind host and family, we returned to that 'dope' den, Callie to prepare the two young men, I to take charge of the girl, and all of us to return on an early train to San Jose. Alas! my girl weakened, and nothing would induce her to part with her drug; but the men went with Callie to an adjacent barber-shop for baths, hair-cutting, and shaving. During these operations Callie and I quickly went to the Salvation Army's secondhand shop, where Callie procured the men complete outfits of respectable clothing. What a transformation when we beheld them again! Then we took them to breakfast; but they ate sparingly, and were not satisfied until they had taken some of their favorite drug.

Two and a half hours later Callie and I were it home once more, and our young men were in the safe keeping of two sanctified brothers. Although these brethren were severely tried and tested time and again, they so held on to God for these precious souls that they are now saved and sanctified and on their road to heaven.

Gallic kept her situation for some time longer and then went forth to preach the glorious gospel. The last time I heard of her, she was being wonderfully blest in preaching in southern California. May God forever guide this precious woman and keep her true until Jesus calls, "Well done, thou good and faithful servant, enter thou into the joy of thy Lord."



CHAPTER XIX.

STILL SOUTHWARD BOUND—SANTA CRUZ—LUCY RETURNS TO HER HOME.

The occurrences of the previous chapter took place several months after the happenings now to be related.

The latter part of August found Lucy and me in Santa Cruz, one of California's beautiful ocean resorts, where again we were fortunate in securing lodging with a Christian landlady, Mrs. Hedgepeth, who took pleasure in furnishing much information. She also introduced us to several, who, later on, became warmly interested in the cause we represented.

In the main, ours was now a house-to-house work. Lucy would take one street, and I another, seeking for means to be applied to the home fund. For days we met only at noon and eventide, weary in body, often somewhat discouraged, but always with new and varied experiences. A few of these we will relate.

One evening Lucy said: "Mother, I called at a lovely home today where were a great variety of beautiful birds and strange little animals in big cages in the yard. The gentleman who was feeding and caring for them seemed pleased at my interest, leaned over the fence and conversed with new about them, telling where he had discovered some, how costly were others, what special care and food most of them required, and much more; but oh! Mother dear, he had no use, no time for Jesus, or anything relating to him. He turned away and left me when I tried to tell him. Isn't he to be pitied? I had better success a few doors higher up. The lady was very kind. She put her name down for one dollar. I've collected $—— for the fund today," and she smiled with joy as she handed me the money.

One reputed wealthy woman, after hearing my story, highly commended the enterprise and said, "I would be glad to help you, but all I can spare I contribute to the Salvation Army." I pleaded further, but in vain. Later, and quite by accident, we learned that her contribution consisted in occasionally purchasing a War Cry. What a sad, sad accounting will have to be given by many on that day when the Judge of all the earth shall sit upon his throne!

Several of the local pastors manifested most kindly consideration, some gave lists of names of charitably disposed people, and a few invited me to share their pulpits.

Never shall I forget the day when Lucy and I called at a handsome residence on Washington Street. The door was opened by one of the most spiritual-countenanced young ladies I have ever had the pleasure of meeting, and from that day to this she has been one of my warmest, most loyal friends—Sister B—— G——. More times than I can count I have acted upon and profited by her wise and kindly advice, and never did she fail me with sympathy and help in a trying hour. Her widowed mother was the first large contributor to the fund. Only God knows my heart's gratitude the day she handed me that cheque for one hundred dollars.

Through the daughter I learned who had spiritual charge of the jail work, and soon, acting on her suggestions, made the acquaintance of Mrs. Mason. She invited us to attend the following Sunday morning services at 9:30 o'clock. In consequence of my responding, the next chapter will relate the sad story which came to me from the lips of a youth sentenced to Folsom penitentiary for ninety-nine years.

We soon located the neighborhood of the poor wandering girls, where many gladly bade Lucy and me welcome. Also, we were informed that, owing to circumstances at that time, the only religious people who would be admitted to certain houses were Salvation Army lassies. Learning our errand, one of these kindly disposed women of God accompanied us, we wearing bonnets loaned for this occasion. The landlady of one of these houses was the one we met on the train, when Callie accompanied me to San Francisco on that important trip.

At this time a gospel-tent was pitched in the rear of the court-house and city hall. Each night there congregated large numbers of people, most of whom came from the humble walks of life. In that precious little tabernacle many souls sought and found salvation. At this time the services were conducted by Brother Williams and his wife, whilst I served as organist, and also, occasionally, as the Lord would lead, delivered His messages.

One night whilst a girl was at the altar pleading for pardon and mercy, she was suddenly seized by a dark-haired, portly woman, dragged off of her knees, and hurried away. This unusual procedure took us workers off our guard and so startled us as temporarily to disable us from acting as we otherwise would have acted. The woman ran down the aisle, firmly gripping the speechless, frightened girl, declaring as she did so that it was her daughter, that she would see to it that this would not happen again; then both disappeared in the darkness. How subtle, how powerful is the adversary of souls! Later we learned that that poor, poor girl had just escaped from this madam (the pretended mother), who, suspecting her victim's whereabouts, had stealthily followed. We worked for her release, but in vain. The girl being of the age of consent, the authorities could not act. Besides, she was now once more subservient to the devil's hypnotic power and influence. All we could do was to hope and pray that the tender Shepherd would, in his own wise way, set her free from her wretched life and save her from the fate awaiting her.

When it became known that two newcomers, practical rescue workers, were in town, we were soon overwhelmed with responsibilities too many to shoulder. Moreover, the San Jose and San Francisco rescue homes, hitherto but little heard of in Santa Cruz, began filling to overflowing with wandering girls.

One day Lucy received a special letter, requesting her immediate presence at home on account of the sudden illness of her mother. We temporarily parted, I promising to join her (God willing) in October, in order to spend my birthday with her and her dear ones. How much I missed my ardent, loving companion I can not say; but as "the King's business requireth haste" (1 Sam. 21:8), I stifled my feelings and busied myself more, if possible, than heretofore in meeting representative people, calling on unfortunates, and, as often as permitted, visiting the prisoners.

In one of these I became so greatly interested that I am sure you also will as you soon read his story.

Before I left Santa Cruz, the Lord had graciously raised up many friends in that place. Time and again it has been my pleasure to return there, always to be warmly welcomed in many homes, and especially entertained by Sisters Green, Mary Perkins, Van Ness, and Brother Westlake and wife. The latter were traveling in gospel-tent work when first I met them. It was when making my home in Redding, where occurred the rescue of little Rosa.

Whilst I recall these precious times, so many instances of special seasons of prayer, special answers, personal kindnesses, and loving considerations come before my vision that I more than ever desire to bow humbly before the wonderful heavenly Father in thanksgiving and praise for graciously permitting so many, many of his loved ones to cheer, advise, and help me; also for enabling me to look past the sinful exterior and to see, by faith, the priceless souls of humanity, souls that are starving and perishing for lack of proper nurture.

And I am still praying for more strength, more grace, more wisdom, more love, to aid me and his other chosen missionaries in the winning of souls and the rescuing of the perishing, for I do not want to go into his heavenly kingdom empty-handed. Do you?



CHAPTER XX.

JOE'S STORY.

In giving you Joe's story, I realize that I am taking considerable liberty, having not asked his permission, but I am confident of his willingness because of the lesson of warning to other boys—and they are so many—whose early lives correspond to his. I am one of Joe's interested friends. I have frequently visited him in the prison adjacent to Folsom, near Sacramento, Cal., and have learned from Warden Reilly that he is a model prisoner. I am hoping, and praying that, if it be the will of God, he will soon be out on parole.

Whilst he was detained in the Santa Cruz jail awaiting a rehearing of his case, it was frequently my privilege to visit that place through the week and, with my little autoharp for accompaniment, to sing for the prisoners. One afternoon, whilst I was sitting by the bars in front of Joe's cell, and just following that blessed song, "Tell Mother I'll Be There," he broke into agonizing sobs and tears, and for a long while could not control himself as he lay prostrate face downward on the cold stone floor. I waited and prayed, my very soul in agony for his, as I began to appreciate and realize his awful situation. Stretching forth my hands through those iron bars, I reverently placed them on his head, and with all my heart implored our Lord for comfort, mercy, and pardon for the soul of this stricken young man, who that morning had learned that the sentence already pronounced at a former trial had been confirmed and that it was immediately to go into effect. There was no escaping his fate now.

I was permitted, by the kind-hearted sheriff, to spend hours with Joe on that occasion. When his grief had somewhat spent itself, this is what he said:

"O Mother Roberts, Mother Roberts! if I only could recall the past! If I only could!

"I started in wrong from the time I can remember. Lots of naughty little things I would do even when I was quite a small shaver. Some things I did the folks would think smart and cute. They would laugh and brag of me to the neighbors, right in my heating, too, and that's where they made a mistake; for, young as I was, it only made me bolder, also saucy.

"Some of the youngsters in our neighborhood were awful. I do believe they were born bad; anyhow, I knew they swore, and so did some of their parents. They gave them many a cuffing, but they didn't care, only swore worse than ever. My folks used to forbid me to go near them, and when any of them came into our yard, used to say, You go right home; I don't want you here. Joe can't play with you.' But Joe did, and that's the reason Joe has to suffer now." ...



"Poor boy! don't tell it, if it distresses you so badly," I said; but he continued.

"The time came when I was old enough to go to school. These same kids went to the same one I did, and do you think I could shake 'em? No, mam; they stuck to me like leeches. They were now harder than ever to get rid of. In fact, I couldn't, but managed never to let my folks see me with them if I could help it, and they knew they dare not come near our house. It didn't take me very long to learn to swear like them, when in their company. I thought it sounded big and smart, although deep down in my heart I knew it was wrong. One day one of them got hold of a deck of soiled playing cards, and the oldest kid undertook to teach the rest of us how to play casino. It didn't take long to learn. I used to often get home late from school now, and when asked what kept me, always told a lie. I hated to do that at first, but it soon got to be easy. The folks so loved me, had such confidence in their 'smart little Joe,' that they never suspected, because I learned my lessons quickly; besides, always had a pretty good report from school.

"We used to play sometimes in a vacant lot. There was a saloon near by, and sometimes the man would treat to soda-water, sometimes we paid for it, and by the time I was thirteen I had learned to love beer and whiskey, also to smoke cigarettes, which we would make from the tobacco we kids stole from our fathers' and other people's pockets when their backs were turned, though sometimes we'd buy it.

"It began to be hard work to get up in time for breakfast and school of a morning, and I'll tell you why. When the folks thought, after I'd said 'Good night' that I'd gone to bed, I'd lock my door, then pretty soon, in my stocking feet, holding my shoes in my hand, I would drop quietly out of my window into the garden, and as quick as I could, by previous arrangement, would join the others in a game of cards for the smokes or the drinks. Father more than once said, 'Joe, I've heard you're keeping bad boys' company. I hope it isn't true. If I have your word for it that it isn't, I'll believe you, because I've never yet caught you in a lie.' I confess I used to feel awfully ashamed and guilty as I'd say, 'Whoever told you that told you a lie. You know where I am at nine o'clock, sir.' And he'd say, 'That's so, my boy. They must have mistaken somebody else for you.' But I knew better.

"When I was about sixteen, I went to work driving a bakery wagon, so that I didn't see quite so much of my former pals, but delivering bread took me into places where no honest or moral man or boy ought to even dare to set his foot, let alone one like me; so I fell still further.

"For all that, a pure, good girl fell in love with me, and I with her. I hated to deceive her, but made up my mind that I would cut it all out when we were married, if she'd promise to be my wife; and so we became engaged. But—I didn't cut it out. More than once she said, 'O Joe, you've been drinking! I smell it.' I'd laugh, and make some kind of an excuse, and she'd forgive me every time. Say, Mother Roberts, I hated myself from head to foot for lying as I did to that pure, sweet girl."

"Go on, Joe, I'm listening."

"One night I joined the boys in a game of cards in a saloon on Sequel Avenue. It appears that Mr. L——, the proprietor, who, by the way, was a veteran G. A. R. man, had received quite a sum of money that day—his back pension. As God is my judge, I did not know this when I went in there that evening. We had a round of drinks after the first game, and after the second, another round; then I said 'Good night' and went home.

"Father and I slept in the same room, and I hadn't been in bed very long when a knock came on our door.

"'Who's there?' asked father.

"'Me, Constable ——, where's Joe? I want him.'

"'Joe's out, Constable. What do you want him for?' asked father.

"'No, I'm not out, Father. Here I am,' I said, at the same time jumping out of bed. 'What's up?'

"'Joe, my boy, I'm sorry for you, but you're my prisoner. Dress as quick as you can and come with me. Mr. L—— was murdered tonight. He isn't dead yet, but he's dying. You were in his saloon a while ago, drinking and playing cards, and you are one of the three accused of the crime of murdering him for the sake of robbing him.'

"The shock was so awful that I couldn't speak, and oh! poor old father! He shook me, saying, 'Speak, Joe. Tell the constable it's not so.'

"Constable, my boy doesn't drink anything to speak of, and I don't suppose he knows one card from another; do you, Joe?'

"Nobody answered this, and pretty soon we were in the presence of the dying man. Oh! Mother Roberts, it was like a horrible nightmare. I was dazed with the shock and the fright of it all. I could hardly get my voice when some one asked me where I had spent the evening, and at what time I had left that saloon. He must have been murdered right after I left. They tried to rouse him to see if he'd recognize me. He claimed to, but I'm sure he didn't; for he couldn't see and didn't know what he was talking about."

"What of your two companions, Joe?" I asked.

"One of them was there, in charge of the sheriff; I don't know where the other one was. From that night up to this we have been here in prison, though we haven't met. He's in a cell on another floor. He's sentenced to San Quentin for life.

"Father mortgaged our pretty home [he afterwards lost it, the mortgage being foreclosed] and has done everything under the sun he knows of to clear me, so have my lawyers; but they've failed! Mother Roberts, they've failed! and I'm to be sent to the penitentiary for ninety-nine years. Think of it, ninety-nine years! That means that unless the real murderer turns up, some day I'll die and be buried in a dishonored grave—and all through starting out wrong to begin with, then keeping it up."

My heart felt torn all to pieces for this poor unfortunate lad. How I should have liked to sit beside those bars all night in order to comfort him! but as that could not be, I presently, after commending him to an ever-merciful God and Savior, whom he could not, as yet, accept or understand, took my departure, as sad and burdened a soul as ever walked the earth. As the tears coursed down my cheeks, I resolved to try to help him, and, moreover, by repeating his story, to warn mothers and fathers to guard their little ones closely every hour of their young lives. Also, I purposed not to spare myself in addressing them, whether individually or en masse, but to confess my own carelessness and shortsightedness, when, as a young mother, I was much of the time heedless with regard to my little spoilt son, for whose soul and body God was some day going to hold me responsible. Had it not been for God's tender mercy and love in pardoning and directing my future life, in answering my earnest prayers for his tender watch-care over me and mine, who knows but that my only and well-beloved son might have shared a similar fate? If he had, I alone would have been to blame.

Many and many a time I have been used of God in trying to comfort stricken mothers who were visiting their children now behind bars. "O God!" they have cried, "what did I ever do that my child should get into such trouble as this?" Poor mothers! You were guilty as was I, but you haven't recognized that fact. Yes, you were; and now you begin to realize it when well-nigh too late. But it isn't yet. Just kneel down and throw yourself on the mercies of a merciful, loving God. Confess to him. Plead with him to forgive you. Ask him to direct every hour, every moment, of your future. Surrender your children to him; tell him you've made a blunder of their lives as well as of your own; then wait on him. Listen to what he says: "Come now, and let us reason together,... Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow, though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool. If ye be willing and obedient, ye shall eat the good of the land; but if ye refuse and rebel, ye shall be devoured with the sword: for the mouth of the Lord hath spoken it." Isa. 1:18-20. "They that wait upon the Lord, shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run and not be weary; they shall walk, and not faint." Isa. 40:31. I have proved, daily am proving, all this, to my constant peace and satisfaction. So may you, dear reader, if you will. God bless you and yours.



Not long ago I visited Warden and Mrs. Reilly at Folsom and had a long interview with Joe. He told me that his poor old father was dead and that he was now alone in the world. I asked him if he wanted to apply for parole. "No, Mother Roberts," he answered; "parole is for guilty prisoners. I want a pardon." "But, Joe," I replied, "if you are paroled, in two years afterward you can apply for and receive your pardon." ... I did not prevail, but I am hoping that before finishing this book I shall receive good news concerning Joe. If so, I will surely tell you.



CHAPTER XXI.

I DEPART FOR PACIFIC GROVE—MEET LUCY AGAIN—HER BAPTISM.

Not very long after poor Joe was removed to Folsom, the call of God took me to another beautiful ocean-resort—Pacific Grove. It was only a short journey. There was no one to welcome me, for I was a stranger, but in less than twenty-four hours one of the Lord's loved ones, a widowed sister, Mrs. Hill, now departed to her eternal home, welcomed me under her roof. On the following evening I was introduced to Miss Fannie Rowe and her mother. The former lady, in gratitude to God for wonderfully raising her up instantly from a state of helplessness and affliction of many years' duration, had consecrated her all to him, and, in addition to innumerable responses to calls for prayers and financial aid, had opened and was supporting a mission in the Grove, another in the adjacent town of Monterey, and one for the Indians, situated at The Needles, Ariz. I gladly responded to her kind invitation to address the patrons of Bethel mission one evening. She gave liberally toward helping to procure the home for the wandering girls.

Many were the private requests for personal work with those who were too young and inexperienced to realize that their attitude and heedless words and deeds were having a demoralizing tendency upon themselves, their schoolmates, and others. This work, let me assure you, dear reader, calls for special prayer for wisdom, diplomacy, and deep love. Young people, especially girls at the difficult age (between thirteen and eighteen), are very hard to persuade, if their earlier training has not been as wise as it should have been. Therefore permit me to advise much and earnest fellowship and prayer with the Father before making any efforts of this nature with them. A false move too often creates rebellion, frequently followed by disastrous results.

But to proceed. An invitation came from the chaplain of the Presidio of Monterey to visit army quarters, situated between the two towns. There I was taken through every department and afterwards invited to address a large body of stalwart young soldiers. You may be sure that, as I did so, my mother heart tenderly went forth to them, as I thought of my own precious son, who was now on the high seas and whom I had the privilege of seeing so seldom, and then only for short visits.

After luncheon with the chaplain and his wife we visited the hospital. I was, as usual, accompanied by my autoharp, and so was able to give a little cheer to the many lonely, suffering ones as well as to speak briefly about the Great Physician and also pray for them. It was all very sad, yet so precious. I would that I could, in the name of Jesus, have temporarily mothered one and all of them. They appeared to be so appreciative, and to be suffering as much from homesickness as from the many other ailments.

Every church threw its doors open to me, the interest grew, God blest my every step, and I (by faith) saw our hopes soon realized. About this time a letter forwarded from Santa Cruz, postmarked San Jose, reached me, telling of the return of the president and also the vice-president of the board of rescue home managers, and urging my return for a conference with them in regard to much renovation and also enlargement of their borders, for the present home was now altogether inadequate to its necessities.

Earnest prayer failed to bring me light on this matter. I could only await God's time. Then came a loving letter from my dear Lucy, stating that her mother had fully recovered and reminding me of my promise to spend my birthday with her and her dear ones. There being no reason why I should not accept, I bade farewell to many newly-found friends, and in a few hours I was being warmly embraced, also overwhelmed with kindness and gratitude, by my spiritual daughter and her refined, delicate-looking mother.

Imagine, if you can, how I, for several days, fared. It was most embarrassing, but very, very precious to my soul, especially so when one day Lucy followed her Savior's example in baptism in the presence of her family, her mother, and me. Placing her wet arms about my neck, she rejoiced my heart by saying, "O Mother Roberts, I've just had a wonderful vision of Jesus, and I want to say this to you: Much as I love my mother and dear ones, I would rather continue with you in the work if you'll take me; will you, dear?" "Will I? I should say I will," I answered, and gladly, humbly, thanked and praised God for the blessed privilege. So not long afterwards we took our departure for Los Angeles, our next field of labor, and, permit me to add, at this time a difficult one. There was an agitation on foot for the closing of all the questionable resorts, and this meant much strenuous, problematical work on the part of the agitators. Amongst these I make mention of the, late Rev. Sidney Kendall, a noted writer and rescue worker, a person who proved to be one of our very valuable friends and advisers during our sojourn in that great and beautiful city (Author of the "Soundings of Hell," etc.)

Matters, through correspondence with the San Jose board, were now assuming such shape that indications were that we should soon return to that place. In the meanwhile we were much occupied, through the daytime largely, in making personal visits to the poor outcasts, who were in great stress of mind at this time. Consequently, many returned to their parental homes, others were taken care of or furnished with situations, but not nearly so many as we could have wished, and all for lack of finances. Oh, how I have wished that those who pray God's will to be done in their lives would only mean it and live up to their prayers, professions, and privileges. What a rich harvest the Master, at the final summing up, could then reap! but alas! not many live the prayer.



CHAPTER XXII.

ANNA—WE LEAVE FOR SAN JOSE.

One evening, during the temporary absence of Lucy (on a few days' visit with friends), Sister Taylor, matron of the Door of Hope, home for girls, and I were invited by Brother Trotter of the Rescue Mission, then situated on Main Street near St. Elmo Hotel, to take charge of the meeting. When the invitation to seek the Savior was given, the altar filled with many mothers' boys, both young and old, and in all sorts of condition—semi-intoxicated, ragged, dirty, etc. (Reader, I have seen this sight scores of times in similar places.)

Several workers joined us on the platform in aiding the seekers. As I was kneeling with my autoharp lying across my lap and my eyes closed, I inadvertently opened them. Out at the open door, about forty feet away, stood a throng of observers, amongst them a girl. Never did I so long to leave the platform, but I feared that an interruption might mean disastrous results to both workers and seekers. Soon the meeting gloriously closed, the doors were shut, and we were hurrying home. As I walked up the street with Sister Taylor and presently stood waiting with her for her approaching car, my lodging being in close proximity, I told her of my seeing that girl by the door and of my longing to have obeyed the impulse to go and speak to the stranger. Sister Taylor comforted me with the assurance of God's never-failing response to the prayer of faith for even the unknown, and urged me to pray for the girl. I replied that it would have been infinitely more satisfactory to have dealt with her face to face.

Suddenly some one gently touched me on the shoulder. Turning about, I beheld a tall, pretty, but weary-looking young woman. It was the girl whom I had noticed in that open doorway.

"May I speak to you a moment?" she asked.

"Yes, dear, gladly! I was wishing I might only meet you, for I saw you looking into the mission just now. Come with me to my room," and I placed my arm through hers.

"No, no!" she replied, "you wouldn't want my kind to visit you there."

"Indeed, I would, and do, dear child, so come along. Good night, Sister Taylor. Remember us in your prayers." ...

It was nearly two o'clock in the morning, and Anna had told me her story—her sad, sad story. Girls, you ought to hear it; so presently I'm going to relate it for your benefit, but first I want you to know that before we left my room, she had surrendered her future to her loving Savior. Before we were off of our knees, she, with the tears in her eyes, suddenly exclaimed:

"Oh! I quite forgot, I quite forgot. Let's go quickly. Poor Flora, my chum, is awful sick, and I came out to hunt her friend and take her some medicine." We hurried away.

* * * * *

There lay a dark-haired girl moaning and gaping for breath. She managed to inquire:

"Who's this, Anna? Who've you brought with you?"

Soon I was reassuring the poor sufferer, whilst endeavoring to make her more comfortable.

"Dear, have you a mother?" I inquired.

"Yes, only two blocks from here; but she doesn't know I'm anywhere near her. She never comes near such a neighborhood as this. Don't tell her. please don't. It would break her heart."

"Very well, my child; I won't."

But she hadn't told Anna not to tell; so I excused myself, called Anna out of the room, and whispered:

"Get me a certain medicine; and if you know where her mother lives, go there, gently break this news, and tell her that if she still loves her child to come immediately with blankets, pillows, and a hack; to be very, very gentle and quiet with her; to talk as little as possible. And we will help to take her home; then she must send quickly for a doctor."

Before five o'clock poor, forgiven, suffering Flora was in bed in her mother's home, where we shall leave her for the present, in order that we may hear Anna's story.

She said: "I'm not seventeen years old till next month, and I'm the oldest of five children—three girls and two boys. My father is a mechanic, but sometimes he's out of work, and then didn't he used to scold! Just as though we were to blame! Poor Mother! I've often pitied her for marrying my father, who was naturally cross and ill-tempered even when things didn't go wrong. Half the time mother daren't say her soul was her own, and, besides, she was naturally one of those meek, timid kind that would put up with anything for the sake of peace.

"Winter before last when he was out of a job for quite a while and mother was having a hard time of it trying to keep us warm and fed, I heard of a place in the next town, just a car-ride away, where I could work for my board and get my fifty cents a day and car-fare if I wanted to go home at night. It was to work in a nice, genteel restaurant; so I coaxed mother to let me take it, which she did. I didn't ask father.

"No, he wasn't what you'd call a drinking man, though he liked a glass of beer once in a while.

"I soon caught on now to do my work well; sometimes used to get tips, but not often, 'cause I had the family and ladies' department to wait on. There was one swell-looking lady used to eat there, and used to come to my table whenever she could. We weren't allowed to chat with the customers, though sometimes we did, if the boss wasn't looking. One day she told me she was very much taken with me, asked if I had a mother and father, and several other questions. So I told her just how it was with us and how I happened to take a situation until father got back to work. Then she asked where I lived. I told her, but that now I was only going home once a week in the afternoon for a little while, it being too dark and cold to get up so early to take my car, and that, besides, I had to work late sometimes, so the boss gave me one dollar and fifty cents extra a week to pay my room rent. She asked if I liked my room.

"'Well, nothing extra. One can't expect much of a place for one dollar and fifty cents a week, can they?'

"She said no, certainly not; but as she had taken a fancy to me, and had a nice house with a nice little spare room in it, if I liked it better than where I was stopping, she would rent it to me, and for me to come and see it that afternoon; which I did. Of course I took it. It was fine! Worth double. She said she did it to encourage me, and for me not to say a word to any one about it, as it might make the other girls jealous; besides, she didn't keep lady roomers. So I promised, and I kept my word.

"Some way, I can't just tell how, I got acquainted with one of her roomers. He soon began to say nice things and make love to me, and we got so well acquainted that he'd leave his door open when I was off duty of an afternoon and would call me in for a chat. But one day—oh! I hate to tell it—he closed the door, and by and by who should walk in on us but Madam herself. I was scared half to death, she raged so, said I'd lose my job, threatened to tell my father, and ordered me to leave her house. By and by she cooled down, and as I'd been crying till I was a sight, said I needn't go back to the restaurant, she'd take care of me, because, after all, she was sorry for me, and as things were so bad for me at home, she'd see what she could do for another situation for me, so for me to stay in and keep quiet.

"The next day she said she'd just fortunately received a letter from a friend of hers in Council Bluffs, Iowa, who wanted a girl like me right away. I wanted awful bad to go and say good-by to Mother and the children, but I was too ashamed, so I did as she advised. I just wrote a little note to tell them I had got a fine situation out of town, and would soon send full particulars and my address; but I never did, no not from that day to this. I couldn't. You know I couldn't, and you know why."

"Yes, dear child, I know. You fell into the awful clutches of that procuress and her accomplices. Poor, poor Anna! There are thousands of cases similar to yours, my poor child. Of course you did not know. They all say that. But go on with your story, Anna."

"I was awful homesick, Mother Roberts, and my conscience was hurting me; my, how it was hurting! There was I decked out in gay cheap silks and laces, drinking, and smoking cigarettes, and carrying on and doing things to please people that I just hated; but I had to; there was no getting out of it. All the time I was longing to go home or to send money to my mother, though I didn't want to send any that came out of that house. No, indeed. Besides, I had to give it nearly all to Madam. One day I told her I was going back home and for her to give me my money. She told me she didn't owe me any, that I owed her.

"'What for?' I asked.

"'For your clothes, jewelry, board, lodging, and the good will of my house,' she said.

"'I thought you gave all that to me,' I said.

"Mother Roberts, you ought to have heard her laugh. It makes me shudder when I think of it, it was so cruel and fiendish! Presently she added:

"'You can't leave till you've paid your debts. I'll have you arrested if you do.'

"'How much do I owe you?' I asked.

"'Pretty near six hundred dollars,' she said.

"I nearly fainted with fright, but what was I to do? I was afraid to die, or else I'd have ended it then and there....

"That night I told a friend of mine, a railroad employee, and he said for me to keep a 'stiff upper lip,' and he'd get me out of there next trip; so I kept my own counsel, and Madam concluded I'd decided to stay where I was and make the best of it. She didn't know I was counting the hours for three days, until my friend got back.

"When he came, he advised me to play drunk, and to go out with him to dinner. He said I need never go back; he'd take me with him on his train when it went out that night.

"'What about my debt?' I asked him.

"'Debt nothing!" he said. 'She can't have you arrested. She can't collect one cent of a debt like that. Don't take any clothes, for fear she'll suspect.'

"Pretty soon I staggered down the stairs, but I wasn't drunk; no, indeed.

"'Where are you going, Anna?' she inquired.

"'Out to dinner with ——. Any objection?' I asked.

"'No, only be in in time for business.'

"Oh, thank God! I never laid my eyes on her again, nor she on me from that day to this. But I don't want you to get the idea that that escape from her ended my troubles. By no manner of means. Listen!" And then she told me of experiences too dreadful for publication—experiences in Ogden and Salt Lake, Utah; Reno, Nevada. Now she was in Los Angeles—farther away from mother and home than ever; as unhappy, as homesick, as miserable a girl as ever trod the earth. When she happened to be passing the mission door, some one was singing, "Just as I am without one plea." After that door had closed for the night, she followed Sister Taylor and me, trying to summon up courage enough to approach me, fearing that if she did not I should soon get on a car and her opportunity of ever meeting me would be lost.

At the time of our meeting, Anna was well-nigh homeless, friendless, penniless, and, worst of all, Christless. In less than four hours, praise God! she had her greatest needs supplied, and, best of all, she had found her Savior.

In memory of this, one of the songs appearing in this book was written—"The Value of a Song." It was a particular favorite with our family in the rescue home, some girl often remarking, "Doesn't it just seem to fit my case, Mother Roberts?" Then she would get me to relate the story of Anna or of some other poor unfortunate. Alas! their name is "Legion."



THE VALUE OF A SONG.

Words and Music by Mrs. Florence Roberts

1. A poor girl was wand'ring alone on the street Of a great busy city, thro' dust and thro' heat, With despair in her heart as she walked to and fro, When she heard a sweet voice singing softly and low:

CHORUS

Just as I am, without one plea, But that they blood was shed for me, And that thou bidd'st me come to Thee, O Lamb of God, I come, I come!

2. As she noted the words of this beautiful song, Her thoughts wandered back to the days that were gone; And in fancy she hears her dear mother once more Sweetly singing the song she now hears thro' that door.

CHORUS

3. "O God, I have sinned, I will do so no more, If thou wilt forgive and a sinner restore; For the sake of my Savior, for mercy I pray: Lord, give me a home with some Christian to stay."

CHORUS

4. "Thou knowest my weakness, my sorrow, my sin, Now grant me, dear Lord, a new life to begin." And soon came the answer to this earnest prayer,—A pardon, a home, and motherly care.

CHORUS.



CHAPTER XXIII.

NORTHWARD BOUND—THE OUTCOME.

More correspondence, also the return of Lucy, decided our length of sojourn at Los Angeles. After prayerful consideration, we, with Anna, soon took our departure for San Jose, where we were warmly welcomed by a now former matron (Callie's dear Sister Griffith). At this time the family consisted of fifteen girls and two workers. Imagine our crowded condition!

The following day the entire board of managers convened, specially to meet me. After prayer and the reading of Scripture, there was an earnest discussion regarding the need of an evangelistic and field worker. Because of my being constantly referred to as the person for such office, I requested permission to retire for brief prayer, also to give them more freedom.

Going to the matron's room, I bowed before the Lord, earnestly petitioned to know the mind of his Spirit, and sought a test. The test was this: If it was his will that I accept this office, the board should, on my return for further conference, give satisfactory answers to the following questions: "Are you willing to incorporate?" "Are you willing to change the name of the home?" and "Are you willing to purchase desirable property?"

When I was once more in their midst, the president, in the name of the board, honored me with the above-mentioned call, stating in detail its necessities. Responding with words of appreciation, I propounded the three questions named.

Answer No. 1: "Yes, quite willing, but unable to do so, for lack of funds. An empty treasury."

Answer No. 2: "Can you suggest a better name?"

"Yes, a God-given one," I answered. Then I stated the objection of many who disliked being styled, "One of the Rescue Home girls." I suggested "Beth-Adriel," meaning "House of the flock of God." All being delighted with this name, it was adopted.

Answer No. 3: "Yes, if you will accept the office of field representative."

In the name of the Lord I accepted; then agreed to pay for incorporation (a matter that was immediately attended to) and to place the remainder of the money in my possession, minus five dollars, into the Beth-Adriel treasury. (This sum amounted to over three hundred dollars.)

Before the board adjourned, Lucy, at my request, was appointed assistant matron, and a most efficient one she proved, until illness compelled her resignation several months later.

All the details of the preliminaries being duly attended to, I now proceeded to fill official engagements, the first of which the following press notice announced:

Mrs. Florence Roberts, a singing evangelise and noted speaker, will sing and speak in the Presbyterian church of Los Gatos, Sunday evening. Mrs. Roberts is the field secretary of the non-sectarian industrial home for women in San Jose; the same is now being incorporated under the name of Beth-Adriel.

The Lord graciously encouraged me with a large and deeply interested congregation, who contributed liberally toward the fund. (This was in November, 1903, four months from the time of my leaving San Francisco for Redwood City with sixty cents in my purse. Traveling and other expenses came out of the fund. Praise, oh! praise the blessed Redeemer forever!)

The following notice is copied from the San Jose Mercury, May 7, 1904:

LAND FOR BETH-ADRIEL HOME.

The California Non-sectarian Home for Women.

Three years ago last September a number of Christian men and women established a home at 673 East St. John Street for unfortunate women and girls. The work still continues at the same place. Last autumn it was incorporated, but to adequately carry out the intentions of the home, there has always been felt the need of a permanent building, planned with reference to the work.

Through the generosity of parties interested, there is a little sum on hand toward the purchase of land.

The board desires to secure a piece of land from two to five acres, where the inmates of the home can raise chickens also cultivate flowers, plants, etc., giving them a percentage on their efforts to encourage them.

The opportunity is now given to some philanthropic party to either donate or sell on easy terms land, as above described, on or near any one of the car lines.

* * * * *

Immediately following our first Christmas in Beth-Adriel I was taken suddenly and dangerously ill, so that my life was despaired of. Many were the prayers for my restoration. How devoted were my dear young friends, especially Lucy and Anna! Praise God! I was unable to resume my duties until April, 1904. Then I responded to a call from Boulder Creek, a lovely town in Santa Cruz mountains; next I went to Watsonville and vicinity; and after that I returned home for a rest, for I was not yet very strong. I arrived at home June first.

Being impressed that my next field of labor was to be in a city in the extreme northern part of California, I, after a week of loving intercourse with my precious girls, sailed for Eureka, Humboldt County, arriving there on June 8, 1904. As usual, the local papers immediately announced my coming, one saying, through the interviewing reporter, that I had $1,200 toward purchasing property.

Two days later I was the guest of Rev. and Mrs. Franklin Baker, whose home became my headquarters during my stay of over two months' duration. I was now in an excellent field of labor amongst the fallen. Moreover, I fulfilled pulpit engagements in practically every church and organization in Humboldt County.

From noon until about 5 P.M. each day (with very few exceptions) I was engaged in house-to-house work in the undesirable districts. After word had been passed around that I was sincerely the friend of the fallen, many a poor wandering girl listened with profound respect to God's loving message in word and song. Even most of the landladies of these houses of sin and shame invited me in, when convenient. Frequently have I been humbly asked to join them at their repasts. Never did I refuse. (Reader, our Savior ate with publicans and sinners; are we, professed Christians, better than he? God forbid!) What golden opportunity to converse whilst we ate! How the best, the very best, would then rise to the surface! On one of these occasions B—— F——, soon to quit forever this mode of living, said:

"Mother Roberts, I've a friend close by. She's taken to drinking heavily lately; otherwise she's refined and accomplished. Can you spare time to see her today?"

"Most assuredly, B——. Can you accompany me?"

She gladly, hurriedly changed her attire, and soon appeared, heavily veiled.

"Why are you veiled, B——?" I asked.

"I don't suppose you will want to be seen walking on the street with me, Mother Roberts," she replied.

With my own hands I removed the veil whilst the tears of tender, humble appreciation and love, gathered and flowed down her cheeks. We were soon at J——'s place, where B—— knocked at a side door, because of the noise of carousal in the front of the house. A beautiful but greatly intoxicated young woman opened the door and began upbraiding B—— for bringing me. But B—— marched right in, pulling me after her.

"We'll go into your bedroom if no one's there, J——," she said, and forthwith proceeded to do so.

"B——, you shouldn't have done this. I'm drunk. I don't want a lady like this one to see me in such a beastly state. You shouldn't have done it, B——," said poor J——.

Such a noise of rowdyism was proceeding from the front room that presently she said: "I'll stop that!" and to me, "Please excuse me a moment."

There was a hush and then sounds of several footsteps. She threw her door wide open, marched them all in, turned the key in the lock, and put the key in her pocket. What did this mean? I soon found out.

"Talk to them, too. They all need it as much as I," she said.

They surely did. All told, there were nine, not including B—— and me. Four were mere lads, who were so ashamed that they tried to hide their features by pulling their hats as far over their faces as possible. I sang a song; they called for another, and still another. During the singing of the third one, J——, with her beautiful hair streaming about her face and shoulders suddenly threw herself lengthwise on the floor, crying out, and calling on God for mercy. Mary Magdalene, prostrate at the Master's feet, was being reenacted once more. I quickly knelt, put my arms around her, and prayed and prayed and prayed. Before I finished, every boy and girl in that bedroom was kneeling.

Some of them I again met, though never in such a place. As for J——, she immediately disappeared, and I have never heard of her since. B—— went East and became a trained nurse, one who spiritually administers to the patients in her charge.



CHAPTER XXIV.

THE SUICIDE OF L——. ITS AFTER-EFFECT.

After much effort and following repeated calls with "not at home" responses, I at last was able to meet one Miss Blank. Seated in her private reception room, I listened respectfully to her recital of vindication because of her present position, and then told her the nature of my errand.

The door was partially open. A beautiful, very beautiful blonde girl attired in pale blue stepped partly in, saying as she did so, "May I come in. Miss Blank?" "No, not just now," was the answer. "I'm engaged for the next few minutes." At her request I sang.

I sang a song entitled "My Mother's Voice." I was sitting where I had a view of a portion of the stairway, and, as I sang, I saw a little blue slipper and part of a dress. That girl sat there listening.

I soon left. Before doing so I asked if I might call again, and received permission.

The following Sunday evening, after I had addressed a large audience in the Presbyterian church and just as the meeting closed, two ladies hastened forward and thus excitedly addressed the pastor (Reverend S——) and me:

"Oh! we thought the meeting would never end. Do you know a girl shot herself just now in Miss Blank's house? She may be living yet. Hurry! You may be able to get there in time to save her soul before she dies." I ran, without even my hat, the pastor quickly following. When we rang the bell, Miss Blank came to the door and, throwing herself into my arms, exclaimed:

"Oh! if I had only let her in! if I had only let her in! Mrs. Roberts, it's the girl who asked to come in the other day when you were calling on me."

"Is she living yet? Quick! let me see her. This is the Rev. Mr. S—— who accompanies me," I said.

"Too late! Mrs. Roberts, too late! She died in awful agony about twenty minutes ago. Those two men in the hall whom you saw as you came in are the coroner and the doctor. Oh! my God! my God! Pray, please pray for her soul," wailed poor Miss Blank.

"Miss Blank, she's gone, never to return. We want to pray for your precious soul," pleaded Brother S——.

"No, no, oh! no," wept Miss Blank, and nothing we could say or do would induce her to kneel with us. She only clung the closer to me, and wept and mourned piteously.

It was early morning before we left.

* * * * *

All that was mortal of beautiful unfortunate L—— had been removed to the morgue, and, the name and address of her parents having been discovered, the following telegram had been sent: "Daughter L—— died suddenly. What disposition of remains?" As quickly as possible came this reply: "Embalm. Leave for Eureka immediately."

(Father's name.)

On Monday afternoon I was once more with Miss Blank, now sufficiently calmed to relate this:

"L—— was taken with a spell of despondency Saturday. [I was there Friday afternoon.] It wasn't like her, for she usually was the life of the house. She didn't get up all day Sunday. I went up after dinner to try to jolly her up, and soon left her, as I thought, more cheerful. Presently we all were startled by the firing of a pistol, followed by some one screaming: 'Oh! my God, my God! what have I done? Help me, please, for God's sake help me!' But she was soon past all earthly aid. All of us were paralyzed with fear, as you may readily understand." Then she wept, as few weep, whilst I also in tears sought to comfort her and to point her to the merciful Savior, but she would have none of him. All I could do was to wait patiently and pray.

I went to the undertaker's to view the remains. He and his wife remarked that they had handled many a corpse, but none so beautiful as this one. But I was grieving for the lost soul. Where, oh! where was it now? Where, where were the others going?

The steamer arrived, and on it not alone the father but also the mother of beautiful L——. No one had expected the mother. To me was assigned the painful task of breaking the news to her. I believe I was the most burdened woman on earth at that hour and time. Rev. S—— introduced me to the stricken father in the hotel office, who presently took us up to their room. To my dying day I shall see that scene. After the introduction to the mother, the father and Brother S—— retired to another room. I was standing there alone with the mother, who leaned against the dressing-case, her hands behind her back, gripping the woodwork. She was a magnificent, majestic-looking lady; the father also was a tall fine-looking man. It was easy to discover whence the daughter had inherited her beauty.

"Who are you?" she gasped.

I explained.

"Tell me, did you know my darling girl?" she inquired.

"No, dear lady, not in life, although I had seen her," I replied.

"Where? where had you seen her?" she next interrogated.

"In the house where she boarded," I answered.

"Was her husband with her?" she inquired.

"No, not that I heard of," was my reply

Next came that dreadful, dreadful question. She shrieked it:

"Tell me, madam, was—it—all—right—with—my—baby—girl?"...

My tongue clove to the roof of my mouth. I tried to answer. Not one word could I utter. The mother with the exclamation. "O my God!" went down in a heap on the floor and I with her. For a long time the silence remained unbroken. She was the first to speak:

"It is so kind of you to come; so kind to help me in my terrible trouble. God will reward you. I never can. Now, dear, I must have particulars, if its kills me. To help get them, I must tell you this: My L—— was my youngest, my petted, spoilt, baby girl. Her every wish was gratified from the time she drew her first breath. Nothing was too good for her, and no expense spared. We sent her to Europe to complete her education. Did you ever hear her sing?"...

Erelong this soul-stricken mother lay in her bed sleeping as only the grief-exhausted can sleep; then I left for a much-needed rest. After a few hours I returned. When I left her late that night, she had sent for poor terrified Miss Blank.

When I came down-stairs the following morning, Mrs. Baker told me that some one was anxious to talk with me over the telephone—some one who would not give her name, only her number. Going to the telephone, I soon recognized Miss Blank's voice.

"Good morning, Mrs. Roberts," she begin. "I've been very anxious to get you, but would not have your rest disturbed, as I was sure you must be worn out. I've been talking to L——'s poor mother all night long, and she has agreed to a funeral service which we can attend. Neither she nor her husband will be present; only our kind. We want to know if you will conduct it for us."

"Where, Miss Blank?" I inquired.

"In the undertaker's chapel tomorrow afternoon at three o'clock. They are going to take her remains back to her old home on Monday's steamer. Do say you will, Mrs. Roberts, please."

I consented, provided I should be allowed to give a message to the living. She gladly acquiesced.

With difficulty I made my way through the crowd that blocked the street in front of the undertaker's the following afternoon. None were admitted but L——'s associates. There she lay, apparently sleeping sweetly, but this was only the beautiful, fast-decaying mortal form. The remains were surrounded by fragrant tributes of exquisite floral pieces, and girls dressed in black robes, heavily veiled, and weeping bitterly. With great effort I at last spoke and sang. I do not remember if I had a text; I do know that the message came to the living straight from the throne of grace. Even until recently some one has occasionally reminded me that she was present on that occasion and that it brought about her reformation. The father and mother departed with their precious burden the following morning. They came early on board, in order to avoid curious eyes. I spent the time with the mother in their stateroom until they sailed. When that casket was lowered into the hold of the steamer, I so obstructed the doorway that she could not look past me.

Before our final parting the poor mother gave a farewell message for other mothers. It was this:

"Mrs. Roberts, I was too indulgent, too weak, with my little girl. All she had to do was to tease until she got her own way even though I knew it would prove to be detrimental to her good. If I resisted or advised ever so little, she would overrule every time.

"When she returned from Europe, she sang in our church choir and proved to be a great attraction. She and the tenor singer, —— ——, were betrothed, and with our consent. He was a schoolmate of hers. For some trifling offense on his part, she became angry and unfortunately showed a relentless spirit; consequently, the breach widened.

"Poor darling! She was so impetuous, so impulsive. I have never quite recovered from the shock I received when she suddenly announced her marriage to an utter stranger—an educated young scoundrel, as we soon learned to our sorrow. Papa and I decided to make the best of it now the deed was done; so he took him into his employ in order that our baby girl might be near us. He robbed us in less than six weeks of several hundred dollars; then Papa told daughter that she was welcome to her home as long as she lived, but that he must go; that she would be compelled to choose. I know she did not want to; but, oh! she was so proud, and she would not give in. She chose her husband, and that was the last I saw of her until—Oh! I can not, can not bear it. Mrs. Roberts! It is killing me!"

* * * * *

"Miss Blank knows him. She had more than once ordered him out of her house for abusing L—— and living off her dreadful earnings...."

When the steamer was far away, almost out of sight, Brother S—— at last turned to me and asked whether I had seen L——'s dairy, now in her father's possession. "No," I replied; "I had no idea she had kept one." Then, as we walked home, he repeated some recent entries in it. I give them to you as best my memory serves me:

(Date) "Just as I feared: Bert has been grafting again and has lost his job...."

(Date) "We're going to Spokane. My! but I'm homesick; I'd like to give in, but I won't! I won't!..."

(Date) "Bert has secured a job at last. Better than nothing—clerking in the soda fountain department of ——'s drug store. Hope he'll quit grafting."

(Date) "I've a good position now in —— ——'s cloak and suit house. Afraid I can't keep it long, my health is so poor lately...."

(Date) "Bert and I had words tonight. He's quit. I suppose he had to."

(Date) "There's a very pleasant lady in the next bed to mine [sanitarium]. I'm going back with her when she goes home, and until Bert is on his feet again...."

(Date) "How much has happened since I last wrote in my diary! I've some fine clothes and jewelry. Bert is sporting a suit of fine clothes and diamond pin, but—I can't write any more."

(Date) "Miss Blank says Bert will have to keep away. I'm glad of it. How I hate him!..."

(Much later) "A lady called yesterday. Wish I might have talked with her. Sang about mother I wish, oh, how I wish—what nonsense I'm writing...."

(Next morning) "I'm so wretched, so very wretched.... Oh! mama, mama, mama! If you could only read between the lines—"

And that was all. No name was signed. But—we can all of us read between the lines, yes all of us.



CHAPTER XXV.

GOOD NEWS FROM HOME—MISS LORAINE.

Letters from different members of Beth-Adriel board were now constantly reaching me. They contained interesting accounts of the doings at home and also much concerning various properties, none of which, from all accounts, appealed to my fancy. Reader, I was hard to please. I wanted something better than had as yet been described. Somehow I felt God had it for us. Sure-enough, as I discovered on my return home in August.

A letter from the vice-president described a property of ten acres of orchard and grounds, all under cultivation; a commodious dwelling, partly furnished; outhouses, etc., situated just outside of the city limits. It was not for sale; but as the owner, who resided on the premises, was a Christian man, it was thought that he might, for such a purpose, be induced to sell. It was deemed best, before approaching him to await my return. You will be pleased to hear more concerning this later. Just now I want to tell you about Miss Loraine.

There was one house in Eureka into which I had never been admitted. One day whilst I was visiting another, the landlady asked:

"Have you ever called on Miss Loraine?"

"I have been there more than once," I answered, "but as yet I have been unsuccessful in gaining admittance."

"Would you still go if you could? I can get you in. I am a personal friend of hers," said Miss ——.

"Thank you, I shall be very glad to have you make the necessary arrangements," I replied, upon which she went to her telephone, took down the receiver, and held the following conversation:

"Hello! is that you, H——? Good morning...."

"Quite well, thank you. How are you?"... "I called you up to tell you of a lady who is calling on me, and who would like very much to meet you. We all call her 'Mother' Roberts."

* * * * *

"No, she isn't a crank."...

"Now, look here, H——, you'll have to see her. You ought to know better than refuse me."

* * * * *

"Well, when will you be at home? At five o'clock? Wait a minute."

Putting her hand over the mouthpiece and turning to me, she asked: "Can you call at five this evening?"

I could; so she made arrangements, hung up the receiver, and then wrote a note of introduction, wording it thus:

Dear H——

This will introduce my friend, Mother Roberts. She is all O. K. Hoping you will have a pleasant time together,

Yours as ever, —— ——

This I presented with my card at Miss Loraine's door at exactly five o'clock. A Japanese page dressed in uniform ushered me into a conventional but well-furnished reception-room. There sat a young woman in a handsome silk negligee, who invited me to be seated, remarking that Miss Loraine was out, but would soon return, and that she was to entertain me in the interval. In a few minutes there came up the steps and then entered the room three splendid-looking young women, richly attired. The one in black silk, Miss Loraine, received me with all the manners of a lady of birth and good breeding, and soon asked me if I would come with her to her private quarters, so that we could converse undisturbed. I followed her up-stairs into a Dresden-draped bedroom, where ensued the following conversation:

"Mrs. Roberts, I feel I owe you an apology for not sooner receiving you. To be candid with you, my door is closed to all who have not made previous engagements; then, too, I shrink from the embarrassment of meeting any ladies from the better walks of life," etc.

Whilst endeavoring to reassure her, I happened to look at a silver-framed photograph of a handsome, white-haired old gentleman. Quickly remarking this, she reverently handed it to me, saying:

"I notice you are attracted to this. Would you think there was anything out of the common in any of these features?"

Upon my replying in the negative, she added:

"This is the photograph of my dearly loved father. He is stone blind."

I expressed my astonishment, for there was no indication in the picture.

After a pause she said, "Mrs. Roberts, will you please do me a favor?"

"If it lies in my power," I replied.

"It does," was her rejoinder. "Will you honor me by dining with me this evening, half an hour hence?"

For one second I hesitated, but on interpreting her expression I instantly replied, "With pleasure," for like a flash came a mental vision of the King of kings dining with Simon the leper (Mark 11:3-9). Then she absented herself for a few minutes, doubtless to make necessary arrangements.

"I feel disposed, if you care to listen." she said on her return, "to give you a synopsis of my life."

I assured her of a great desire to hear it and, if possible, to prove more than simply a hearer. Briefly, it was this:

She was an only child of rich parents. She was reared in a luxurious home, where card-playing, theater-going, dancing, and all other high society amusements were continually indulged in. When she was entering her teens and most needed a mother's care, her mother died, and her father placed her in a fashionable boarding-school. She remained there until she was seventeen, when he sent her, under the chaperonage of friends, on a trip to Europe.

Whilst she was in Rome, she received from her father a cable message reading, "Come home on next steamer." Upon arriving in New York, she soon learned from her father's lips of his total failure in business (he was a stock broker) and also of the fast approaching affliction—blindness. Property of every description was swept away. She soon secured a position as nursery governess, but erelong she realized that she was unqualified, never having been coached for any but high social life.

The gentleman (?) whom she had expected to marry some day proved untrue as soon as her riches fled.

Just at a time when her employer had gently informed her of her inability to fill her position of governess satisfactorily and of her (the employer's) intention of dismissing her, the tempter, in the form of an unprincipled but well-to-do man about to make a trip to the Pacific Coast, crossed her path and ensnared her. Under promise of marriage, she agreed to go with him. After telling her now blind father, who was being provided for out of her earnings, that she had secured a position for better pay, but that it would take her away from New York for a time, she bade him a tearful farewell.

Before long the rich reprobate deserted her, but he was merciful enough not to leave her penniless. With a considerable sum at her disposal, and for advisers one or two whose morals were at a low ebb, she came North and furnished the house in which I was now sitting.

She was in constant correspondence with her father, who supposed that she was married and that the fifty dollars or more (never less) which he monthly received came from his wealthy son-in-law. And now hear her own words:

"Mrs. Roberts, I believe you will give me an honest answer to my earnest question. Would it be possible for me to secure any honorable position whereby I might continue to send my dear father fifty dollars a month, as well as live respectably myself?"

Reader, what answer would you, had you been in my place, have made? I was in an awkward position—in the presence of one who had never attended any but a fashionable church and hence—who knew little or nothing of God and his Son, one who had never been taught anything which in the event of accidents or business failures would prove practical. She was indeed and in truth to be pitied. My reply was a question:

"Could you not have kept a respectable lodging-house, my dear Miss Loraine?"

"Perhaps, had I been advised by the right kind of people, but I met the wrong ones," she replied. "As long as my dear father lives," she added, "I must send him this sum for rent and ordinary comforts. The moment word reaches me of his demise, I will forever cease living such a life. I will quietly disappear to some remote corner of the globe."

Then she showed me a letter just received, one beginning, "My dear Son and Daughter." How my heart ached as I silently prayed to know what to do!

"What about the inmates of your house. Miss Loraine? How do you procure them?"

"Pardon me, but I can not explain that. I will say, though, each of them has a sad story. They are, as you will presently infer from what you see, refined, more or less talented girls; but they will soon drift downward. The life is too rapid, and nature will not long stand the strain and abuse. I never interfere if a girl shows an inclination to quit; on the contrary, I gladly help her."

Here a gong sounded, announcing dinner. She preceded me to the dining-room. When we entered, I saw five handsome young women, whose ages varied (I should judge) from eighteen to twenty-six. They were all attired in quiet dress, surely in honor of the occasion, which courtesy I greatly appreciated. Permission being granted, I invoked a blessing. The meal was served in courses, and we were waited upon by the Japanese page. I ate very sparingly, in fact, made only a pretence of eating, for God's message lay so heavily on my heart that I had to deliver it. They listened with rapt attention, and all but one shed tears. How stolid she appeared to be! yet she was possibly the one many months later most impressed. I met her again. She was home then in her father's house once more, but was not yet a Christian.