Meanwhile, the men were fully occupied each day in hunting seals or fishing, cutting firewood with the axe they had found in the hut, and in making their home more comfortable. A door was fitted to the hut; a wooden partition was put up to cut off more effectually the women's apartment from that of the men; the open crevices in the walls were stopped up with moss, and many other improvements were made. A few nails extracted from the walls of the hut were converted into fish-hooks, by means of the file which had been found, and Nellie spun some excellent fishing-lines from flax found growing wild in abundance. The file also enabled them to strike fire with broken flints picked up on the shore. The ash of burnt cotton, as the doctor knew, makes good tinder; so in the public interest, John Mitford agreed to part with the ragged remains of the cotton shirt he had long worn—quite unnecessarily—over his woollen jersey. Thus they could afford to let the fire go out, and were relieved from constant watching, as well as anxiety in regard to it.

They did not, however, cease their nocturnal vigils, for the hope of deliverance never died out, though it at last sank very low. Besides keeping their seal-skin flag flying, they kindled a beacon-fire every night, to guard and replenish which became the nightly duty of one or other of the men—watch and watch about—all the time they stayed on the island.

During the earlier part of each night, however, the beacon-fire was not watched. It was merely lighted and left for some hours to look after itself. During this period, after supper, the whole party were wont to draw round the blazing fire in the hut, and each contributed his or her share to the entertainment of the social circle. Then it was that lugubrious John Mitford developed amazing powers of inventive story-telling, and Joe Slag came out strong with thrilling lifeboat tales, every word of which Bob Massey corroborated, while Terrence O'Connor displayed powers of sarcastic criticism of the highest order, and Tomlin, Black Ned, and the women proved an intensely appreciative audience. But the latter were not merely listeners. True, Peggy did nothing for the general good. Having quite exhausted her lungs with incessant talk during each day, she was fortunately almost incapable of speech in the evening, but Nellie, who possessed a voice as sweet as herself, and clear and true as that of a nightingale, was induced to "favour the company"—chiefly with pathetic or patriotic ditties and hymns—while Eva thrilled her audience with terrible tales of slavery, in many of which she had acted a part. Of course Dr Hayward lent his aid, both with song and story; but, like a true leader, he devoted himself chiefly to drawing out the powers of his companions, directing or diverting the flow of conversation, and keeping order. He also instituted what may be truly styled family worship at night, by repeating from memory portions of the word of, God and engaging in prayer just before retiring to rest. Bob Massey and Tomlin were induced to help him in this, and never was a prayer put up from that hut in which there was not an earnest petition that a ship might be sent for their deliverance.

"But a ship is long, long o' comin'," said Slag to Jarring as he accompanied the latter part of the way to the beacon-fire one night when it was Black Ned's turn to watch.

"A ship'll come, Joe, when God sees fit to send it," said Ned.

Slag glanced at his comrade in surprise, the reply was so very unlike Ned's usual style of speech that he felt uncertain whether it was uttered in earnest.

"The only thing I feel an awful longin' for now, at times, is a bit o' 'baccy," continued Ned.

"So does I, Ned, an' I sometimes think Dr Hayward has got the advantage of us there, for he never smoked, so he says, an' in coorse it stands to reason that he can't have no longin' for a thing he don't want—an' he seems as jolly an' happy as the best of us without it!"

"Ay, jollier and happier!" replied Ned, shortly.

"But, I say, Ned, don't ye ever feel a longin' for grog? Ye used to be raither fond of it."

"No—not now, Joe. It's the best thing as ever happened to me, bein' cast on this here island—wi' Dr Hayward to give a feller a word of advice."

Slag, who felt a sort of self-righteous superiority over his comrade, inasmuch as he had never given way to drink, said, "You should be thankful for that, Ned."

"I am thankful," returned the other in a tone that induced Slag to say no more.

It was a very dark night, and cold, so that Black Ned involuntarily shuddered as he approached the beacon-fire alone—Joe having left him— and commenced to heap on fuel. Then rain began to fall heavily. There was no shelter, and the watchman was soon drenched to the skin. Heaping on more logs till the fire roared again, he tried to warm himself, and stood so close to the blaze that his garments smoked—they would have burnt had they not been wet—but no heat seemed to penetrate the shivering frame of Black Ned.

Next morning the poor man was smitten with a raging fever. From the first the doctor had little hope of his recovery. With a constitution fatally injured by dissipation and drink, his chance was very small; but of course every effort was made to save him. He was laid on a soft bed of moss in the warmest corner of the hut, and the women took their turn in nursing him, night and day—the coxswain's wife, however, being the chief nurse; for, besides being sympathetic and tender by nature, she had been trained in a rough school where self-reliance and capacity were constantly called into action in circumstances of difficulty, so that she was better fitted for the post than either of her companions. But their efforts were of no avail. After a week, Black Ned died, with a smile of gratitude on his dark face as he gazed in Hayward's eyes, and held his hand until the spirit returned to God who gave it.

The gloom cast over the little community by this sudden appearance of the King of Terrors lasted for many days, and had the good effect of turning the thoughts of all of them to those subjects which are obviously and naturally distasteful to fallen man—the soul and the world to come. But gradually the gloom passed away, though it left in the party a greater longing than ever to escape from their island prison.

One day, while some of them were at breakfast, Terrence O'Connor rushed into the hut with the news that a ship was in sight! Instantly the boat was manned, and they rowed with all their might towards the vessel, which was seen like a white speck on the horizon. They rowed to within four miles of her, with an oar set up as a mast, and a jacket attached thereto as a flag, but a breeze sprang up, and the strange sail actually passed on without taking the slightest notice of them—though the people on board could not have failed to see the boat!

Profound was the disappointment, and violent the indignation, that filled the thoughts of the castaways as they rowed slowly back to land.

"Sure it's devils that must live in the bodies o' some men," growled O'Connor, in the bitterness of his soul.

"You're too hard on the devils, Terrence," said Bob Massey. "Some men in this world do the worst that they can, an' surely devils can do no more than that."

This incident, however, aroused the hopes and expectations of the party to a high pitch, so that the beacon-fire was kept burning more steadily and brightly than before, and the look-out hill was more frequently visited; still, weeks and months passed by, and no deliverance came to them.

During this period, the seal-hunting, fishing, clothes-mending, etcetera, were carried on with unflagging energy, and the nightly entertainments became more and more entertaining, by reason of use and effort developing new capacities and talents that might in less favourable circumstances have lain altogether dormant. All this was due very much to their leader; for, besides being a God-fearing man, Hayward was pre-eminently cheery, and full of fun as well as vigour. The coxswain, too, was like-minded, and of great capacity in every way; while his wife's voice was so charming that the party became almost dependent on it. They could scarcely have gone to rest at last without Nellie's hymn or song as a lullaby! We must state, however, that Tomlin did not share in this pleasure. That poor man had been born musically deaf, as some people are born physically blind. There was no musical inlet to his soul! There was, indeed, a door for sound to enter, and music, of course, sought an entrance by that door; but it was effectually destroyed, somehow, in passing through the doorway, so that poor Tomlin showed no symptom of pleasure. What he heard, and how he heard it, is known only to himself!

Once or twice during this time they visited the cavern of the wreck, with the view, if possible, of recovering something from the sunk vessel, but though most of the men could swim, none of them could dive, therefore the result was failure.

They succeeded, however, in making soap by boiling wood-ash and seal's fat in their cast-iron pot. Those who are accustomed to the celebrated "Pears" can scarcely understand what an addition to cleanliness and comfort resulted from this coarsely manufactured article.

Gulls' eggs were found in great quantity on the cliffs, and the discovery and capture of wild pigs added to the luxury of their table— which latter, by the way, was an ingenious contrivance of Joe Slag. Binding four sticks together in the form of a stout oblong frame, Joe had covered this—filled it in as it were—with straight branches about a finger thick, laid side by side and tied to the frame. This he fixed on four posts driven into the ground, and thus formed an excellent, if not an elegant, table.

One morning at breakfast, Terrence O'Connor was observed to be unusually busy with a large hook.

"Are you goin' to fish for sharks to-day?" asked Slag.

"Faix, no; it's to the woods I'll go fishin' to-day, Joe. Now, Nell, gi' me the stoutest line ye've got on hand, mavourneen."

"Will that do? I made it the other day specially for sharks—or whales!" said Nellie, with a light laugh, for she expected him to reject the line she held up.

"The very thing, Nell. Hand it over. Now, boys, I'm off to try my luck i' the woods, for I'm gittin' tired o' the say."

O'Connor went off alone, bestowing a mysterious wink on Peggy Mitford as he left.

The Irishman had observed that the wild pigs were particularly fond of a certain root which was plentiful in a valley about three miles distant from the hut. Repairing to that valley, he dug up one of the roots, baited his hook with it, hung it from a low branch to attract attention, fastened the other end of the line to a tree, and went off to hide and bide his time. Before half-an-hour had elapsed, a gay young pig visited the scene of its former festivities, saw the pendent bait, smelt it, took it in its mouth, and straightway filled the woods with frantic lamentations. The struggle between the Irishman and that pig was worthy of record, but we prefer leaving it to the reader's imagination. The upshot was, that the pig was overcome, carried—bound, and shrieking—to the hut, and tamed by Peggy. In a short time, other pigs were caught and tamed. So, also, were rabbits. These bred and multiplied. The original pig became the mother of a large family, and in a short time something like the sounds and aspects of a farm began to surround the old hut. Still further—by means of the cast-iron pot, which already boiled their soup and their soap—they managed to boil sea-water down into salt, and with this some of the pigs were converted into salt pork—in short, the place began to assume the appearance of a busy and thriving backwoods settlement.

"It's risin' tide with us again, after a fashion, Nell," said the coxswain to his wife, as they stood one evening on the sea-shore watching the sunset.

Nellie sighed. "It is, Bob," she said, "and I'm very thankful; but—but I'd rather be at home in Old England among kith and kin, even though the tide was low!"

"What! alongside o' Aunt Betty?"

"Yes, even alongside o' Aunt Betty; for if this voyage has taught me anything at all, it has taught me that, after all, 'there's no place like home!'"

"Right you are, Nell," said Joe Slag, who came up at that moment, "there's no place like home—when it's a happy one; but if it ain't a happy one, there may be difference of opinion even on that pint, d'ee see?"

That very night, a great ocean steamer, bound from the Antipodes to Old England, chanced to diverge from her true course, and sighted the beacon-fire which Tomlin—on duty at the time—was stirring up to fervent heat. The Captain was not one of those whom Terrence O'Connor credited with diabolic possession. He was a good man; and, knowing that men did not light beacon-fires on lonely islands merely for amusement, he resolved to lay-to till daylight, which was due in about an hour from the time the island was sighted. Meanwhile, he sounded his steam whistle.

At the sound, the hut instantly disgorged its male inmates, who, recognising the familiar noise and the steamer's lights, sent up a shout of mingled joy and thanksgiving.

"Get out the boat, boys!" cried Hayward, as he ran back to the hut to rouse the women.

"Get ready, quick! Eva; a steamer at last, thank God, in the offing! Don't lose a moment. They may have little time to wait. Boat will be ready in a few minutes."

"Ay, an' pack up all you want to carry away," cried the coxswain, crossing the threshold at that moment.

"So it is all going to end suddenly like a dream!" said Eva, as she hastened to obey orders.

"Home, sweet home!" murmured Nellie, trembling with joy at the prospect.

"Wherever you are, my dear, the home will be sweet," said Peggy. "Though of course it wouldn't be that without your 'usband, for it takes two to make a fight, you know, an' it takes two no less, I think, to make things pleasant, but—dear, dear, what a disagreeable thing it is to 'ave to dress in a 'urry, though one shouldn't—"

"Look alive, there! look al-i-ve!" roared O'Connor, putting his head in at the door. "Daylight's a-breakin', an' they won't—"

"Oh! Terrence, that reminds me—don't forget our pets," cried Nellie, who had steadily declined to speak of them as "live stock."

"All right, missis. It's lookin' after them I am this minnit."

The Irishman ran, as he spoke, to the styes and hutches where the pigs and rabbits were kept and opened the doors.

"Out wid ye!" he cried, "the Act of Emancipation's passed, and ye're all free—ivery mother's son of ye."

Accustomed to his voice and his caressing hand, the astonished creatures seemed to look up at him in surprise.

"Be aff, at wance, hooroo!" cried the excited man, with a clap of his hands and a Donnybrook yell that sent all the "pets" leaping and squealing into their native jungle.

Soon after that the boat was bounding out to sea under the impulse of strong arms and willing hearts. A few minutes more, and they were receiving the warm congratulations of the passengers and crew of the steamer. Then the order was given to go ahead full speed, and the engine's great heart seemed to throb sympathetically within the hearts of the rescued ones as the vessel cut her way swiftly through the Southern Ocean—homeward bound for Old England! Nevertheless, there was a touch of sadness in the breasts of all as they turned their farewell gaze on the receding island and thought of the pets, the old hut, the long period of mingled pleasure and suffering, and the lonely grave.

————————————————————————————————————

We cannot part from the friends whose footsteps we have followed so long and so far without a parting word or two.

On returning to his native village, Bob Massey found that his successor as coxswain had died, and that another man had not yet been appointed to the lifeboat—he was therefore installed, with much rejoicing, in his old position as a rescuer of human lives. Joe Slag, naturally and pleasantly, also fell into his old post at the bow. Nellie found that Aunt Betty had had what the villagers called "a stroke" during her absence; which crushing blow had the effect of opening her eyes to many things regarding herself and others, to which she had been particularly blind before. It also had the effect—indirectly—of subduing much of the evil in her character and bringing out much of the good. As evil begets evil, so good begets good; and one result of this law was, that the seven children, whom she had brought—or banged—up, became seven repentant and sympathetic and reasonably good creatures when they saw the old mother, whom they used to think so harsh and so physically strong, reduced to amiable helplessness. Thus it came to pass that there was not in all the village an old woman who was so well looked after by her progeny as Aunt Betty.

Terrence O'Connor continued to rove about the world in the capacity of a ship's cook till near the end of his days. John Mitford and Peggy unexpectedly came into a small inheritance soon after returning home, and settled down for life close to the coxswain's cottage. Tomlin went to New Zealand to seek his fortune. Whether he found it or not, we cannot tell! Last, but not least, Dr Hayward and his wife returned to their native land, and for many years afterwards kept up a steady correspondence with Nell Massey, in which, you may be sure, there were frequent and pleasant allusions to the time which they had spent together on the lonely isle in the southern seas.

One morning, Nellie presented her husband with a baby boy. Bob was out with the lifeboat rescuing a shipwrecked crew at the time the presentation was made. On his return, he opened the door and stood before his wife dripping wet.

"Fifteen saved this time, Nell," he began, but the nurse stopped him by exhibiting the baby boy.

"Thank the Lord!" he said, with a glad look in his wet eyes.

"You mustn't come near us," said the nurse, with a look of warning. "Only a look just now."

"The tide has risen to the flood now, Bob," murmured the young mother, softly.

"Ay," said the coxswain in a deep voice, "an' it's a high spring tide too. God bless you, Nell!"

THE END.



STORY TWO, CHAPTER 1.

JACK FROST AND SONS—A SHORT STORY.

One year in the last quarter of the present century John Frost, Esquire, of Arctic Hall, paid an unusually long visit to the British Islands.

John, or Jack, Frost, as he was familiarly called by those who did not fear him, was a powerful fellow; an amazingly active, vigorous, self-willed fellow, whom it was difficult to resist, and, in some circumstances, quite impossible to overcome.

Jack was a giant. Indeed, it is not improbable that he was also a "giant-killer,"—an insolent, self-assertive, cold-hearted giant, who swaggered with equal freedom into the palaces of the rich and the cottages of the poor; but he did not by any means meet with the same reception everywhere.

In palaces and mansions he was usually met in the entrance hall by a sturdy footman who kicked him out and slammed the door in his face, while in cottages and lowly dwellings he was so feebly opposed that he gained entrance easily—for he was a bullying shameless fellow, who forced his way wherever he could—and was induced to quit only after much remonstrance and persuasion, and even then, he usually left an unpleasant flavour of his visit behind him.

But there were some abodes in which our hero met with no opposition at all, where the inmates scarcely made any attempt to keep him out, but remained still and trembled, or moaned feebly, while he walked in and sat down beside them.

Jack was somewhat of a deceiver too. He had, for the most part, a bright, beaming, jovial outward aspect, which made the bitter coldness of his heart all the more terrible by contrast. He was most deadly in his feelings in calm weather, but there were occasions when he took pleasure in sallying forth accompanied by his like-minded sons, Colonel Wind and Major Snow. And it was a tremendous sight, that few people cared to see except through windows, when those three, arm-in-arm, went swaggering through the land together.

One Christmas morning, at the time we write of, Jack and his two sons went careering, in a happy-go-lucky sort of way, along the London streets towards the "west end," blinding people's eyes as they went, reversing umbrellas, overturning old women, causing young men to stagger, and treating hats in general as if they had been black footballs. Turning into Saint James's Park they rushed at the royal palace, but, finding that edifice securely guarded from basement to roof-tree, they turned round, and, with fearless audacity, assaulted the Admiralty and the Horse-Guards—taking a shot at the clubs in passing. It need scarcely be recorded that they made no impression whatever on those centres of wealth and power.

Undismayed—for Jack and his sons knew nothing either of fear or favour—they went careering westward until they came to a palatial mansion, at the half-open front door of which a pretty servant girl stood peeping out. It was early. Perhaps she was looking for the milkman—possibly for the policeman. With that quick perception which characterises men of war, Major Snow saw and seized his opportunity. Dashing forward he sprang into the hall. Colonel Wind, not a whit less prompt, burst the door wide open, and the three assailants tumbled over each other as they took possession of the outworks of the mansion.

But "Jeames" was not far distant. The screams of Mary drew him forth, he leaped into the hall, drove out the intruders, and shut the door with a crash, but with no further damage to the foe than the snipping off part of Major Snow's tails, which Mary swept up into a dust shovel and deposited in the coal-hole, or some such dark region below.

Our trio possessed neither fear nor pride. They were also destitute of taste, and had no respect for persons. Treating their repulse as a good joke, they turned round and went hilariously along the Strand, embracing every one they met, young and old, rich and poor, pretty and plain, with pointed impartiality, until they reached the City. There we will leave them to revel amongst the poor, while we return to the mansion at the west end.

In two snug bedrooms thereof two young men lay in their comfortable beds, partially awake and yawning—the one flat on his back as if laid out for his last sleep; the other coiled into a bundle with the bedclothes, as if ready to be carried off to the laundry with the next washing. The rooms were connected by a door which stood open, for the occupants were twin brothers; their united ages amounting to forty years.

"Ned," said the straight one to the bundle.

"Well, Tom," (sleepily).

"Did you hear that noise—like a cannon-shot?"

"Ya-i-o-u yes—som'ing tumbled—door bang'd," (snore).

"Hallo, Ned!" cried Tom, suddenly leaping out of bed and beginning to dress in haste; "why, it's Christmas morning! I had almost forgot. A Merry Christmas to you, my boy!"

"M'rry Kissm's, ol' man, but don' waken me. What's use o' gettin' up?"

"The use?" echoed Tom, proceeding rapidly with his toilet; "why, Ned, the use of rising early is that it enables a man to get through with his work in good time, and I've a deal of work to do to-day at the east-end."

"So 'v' I," murmured Ned, "at th' wes' end."

"Indeed. What are you going to do?"

"Sk-t."

"Sk-t? What's that?"

"Skate—ol' man, let m' 'lone," growled Ned, as he uncoiled himself to some extent and re-arranged the bundle for another snooze.

With a light laugh Tom Westlake left his brother to enjoy his repose, and descended to the breakfast-room, where his sister Matilda, better known as Matty, met him with a warm reception.

Everything that met him in that breakfast-parlour was warm. The fire, of course, was warm, and it seemed to leap and splutter with a distinctly Christmas morning air; the curtains and carpets and arm-chairs were warm and cosy in aspect; the tea-urn was warm, indeed it was hot, and so were the muffins, while the atmosphere itself was unusually warm. The tiny thermometer on the chimney-piece told that it was 65 degrees of Fahrenheit. Outside, the self-registering thermometer indicated 5 degrees below zero!

"Why, Matty," exclaimed Tom, as he looked frowningly at the instrument, "I have not seen it so low as that for years. It will freeze the Thames if it lasts long enough."

Matty made no reply, but stood with her hands clasped on her brother's arm gazing contemplatively at the driving snow.

"What are you thinking about?" asked Tom.

"About the poor," answered Matty, as she went and seated herself at the breakfast-table. "On such a terrible morning as this I feel so inexpressibly selfish in sitting down to an overflowing meal in the midst of such warmth and comfort, when I know that there are hundreds and thousands of men and women and children all round us who have neither fire nor food sufficient—little clothing, and no comfort. It is dreadful," added Matty, as an unusually fierce gust dashed the snow against the windows.

Tom was like-minded with his sister, but he could not suppress a smile as he looked into her pretty little anxious face.

"Yes, Matty, it is dreadful," he replied, "and the worst of it is that we can do so little, so very little, to mend matters. Yet I don't feel as you do about the selfishness of enjoying a good breakfast in comfortable circumstances, for it is God who has given us all that we have, as well as the power to enjoy it. I grant, that if we simply enjoyed our good things, and neither thought of nor cared for the poor, we should indeed be most abominably selfish, but happily that is not our case this morning. Have we not risen an hour earlier than usual to go out and do what we can to mitigate the sorrows of the poor? Are we not about to face the bitter blast and the driving snow on this Christmas morning for that very purpose? and should we not be rendered much less capable of doing so, if we were to start off on our mission with cold bodies and half-filled—I beg pardon, pass the muffins, dear. Besides, sister mine, if you were to go out on such a morning cold and underfed, would it not be probable that I should have to go and fetch a doctor for you instead of taking you out to help me in aiding and comforting poor people?"

"That may be all very true, Tom," returned Matty, with a dissatisfied and puzzled look, "but I cannot help feeling that I have so much, so very much, more than I need of everything, while the thousands I speak of have so little—so very little. Why could not rich people like us be content with plainer things, and use fewer things, and so have more to give to the poor?"

"You have broached a very wide and profound subject, Matty, and it would probably take us a week to go into it exhaustively, but a few words may suffice to show you that your remedy would not meet the case. Suppose that all the people in England were all at once smitten with your desire to retrench in order to have more to spare to the poor—and were to act upon their convictions; to determine that henceforth they would live on the plainest food, such as potatoes, mutton, and bread; what, I ask you, would become of the great army of confectioners? Would they not be thrown out of employment, and help, perhaps, to swell the ranks of the poor? If the rich ceased to buy pictures, what would become of painters? If they gave up books, (horrible to think of!) what would be the consequences to authors, and what the result to themselves? If carriages and horses were not kept, what would become of coachmen and grooms and ostlers—to say nothing of coach-makers, saddlers, harness-makers, and their innumerable dependants? No—living plainly or simply is not what is wanted, but living reasonably—according to one's means. Then, as to your having, as you say, much more than you need— that does not injure the poor, for nothing of it is wasted. Does not part of the surplus go to Mary and James and the other servants, and much of what they do not consume goes in charity, directly, to the poor themselves?"

"Well, but," returned Matty, with the distressed and puzzled look still unabated, "though all you tell me may be quite true, it does not in the least degree alter the fact that there is something quite wrong in the condition of the poor of our great cities, which ought to be remedied."

"Of course it does not, little woman, but it relieves my mind, and it ought to relieve yours, as to the selfishness of enjoying a good breakfast."

"But, surely," resumed Matty, with a slightly indignant look and tone, "surely you don't mean to tell me that there is no remedy for the miserable condition of the poor, and that the rich must just sigh over it, or shut their eyes to it, while they continue to revel in luxury?"

"How you fly to extremes, sister!" said Tom, with a laugh, as he neatly cut the top off a fourth egg. "I combat your erroneous views, and straightway you charge me, by implication, with having no views at all! A remedy there surely is, but the wisest among us are not agreed as to what it is—chiefly, I think, because the remedy is not simple but extremely complex. It cannot be stated in a few words. It consists in the wise and prompt application of multiform means—"

"Brother," interrupted Matty with a smile, "do you think I am to be turned from my quest after this great truth by the stringing together of words without meaning—at least words vague and incomprehensible?"

"By no means, Matty. I hope that nothing will ever turn you from your quest after the best method of helping the poor. But my words are not meant to be vague. By multiform means I would indicate legislation in numerous channels, and social effort in all its ramifications, besides the correction of many erroneous modes of thought—such, for instance, as the putting of the less before the greater—"

"Tom," again interrupted Matty, "I think it is about time to go and put on my things."

"Not so, sister dear," said Tom impressively; "I intend that you shall hear me out. I think that you put the less before the greater when you talk of 'giving' to the poor instead of 'considering' the poor. The greater, you know, includes the less. Consideration includes judicious giving, and the teaching of Scripture is, not to give to, but to consider, the poor. Now you may be off and get ready—as quickly as you can, too, for it would never do to keep the poor waiting breakfast!"

With a light laugh and a vigorous step—the result of goodwill to mankind, good intentions, good feeding, and, generally, good circumstances—Matilda Westlake ran upstairs to her room at the top of the house to put on a charming little winter bonnet, a dear little cloak lined with thick fur, and everything else to match, while Tom busied himself in meditating on the particular passage of God's Word which he hoped, by the Spirit's influence, to bring home to the hearts of some of the poor that Christmas morning.

Half an hour after these two had gone forth to do battle with John Frost and Sons, Edward Westlake sauntered into the breakfast-room, his right hand in his pocket and his left twirling the end of an exceedingly juvenile moustache.

Turning his back to the fire he perused the morning paper and enjoyed himself thoroughly, while James re-arranged the table for another sumptuous meal.

Ned was by no means a bad fellow. On the contrary, his companions thought and called him a "jolly good fellow." His father was a jolly, though a gouty old widower. Perhaps it was owing to the fact that there was no mother in the household that Ned smoked a meerschaum in the breakfast-room while he read the paper.

"Have my skates been sharpened?" he asked, looking over the top of the paper.

James said that they had been sharpened, and were then lying ready on the hall table.

Sauntering to the window Ned looked out, and, James having retired, he made a few remarks himself, which showed the direction of his thoughts.

"Capital! Ice will be splendid. Snow won't matter. Lots of men to sweep it. Looks as if the wind would fall, and there's a little bit of blue sky. Even if it doesn't clear, the pond is well sheltered. I do like a sharp, stinging, frosty day. Makes one's blood career so pleasantly!"

With such agreeable thoughts and a splendid appetite Ned Westlake sat down to breakfast. Thereafter he put on a thick overcoat, edged with sable, a thick pair of boots and softly lined gloves, and went out with the skates swinging on his arm.

Jack Frost and his two sons were still holding high revelry outside. They met him with impartial violence, but Ned bent forward with a smile of good-humoured defiance, and went on his way unchecked.

Not so a stout and short old female of the coster-monger class, who, after a series of wild gyrations that might have put a dancing dervish to shame, bore down on Ned after the manner of a fat teetotum, and finally launched herself into his arms.

"Hallo old girl—steady," exclaimed Ned, holding her up with an effort. "You carry too much sail to venture abroad in such weather."

"Which it were my only one!" gasped the old woman, holding out her umbrella that had been reversed and obviously shattered beyond repair. Then, looking up at Ned, "You'd better leave a-go of me, young man. What will the neighbours think of us?"

Which remark she uttered sternly—all the more that she had securely hooked herself to the railings and could afford to cast off her friend.

With a solemn assurance that he esteemed her, "the sweetest of the fair," Ned went smilingly on his way, receiving in reply, "La, now, who'd 'a' thought it!"

Having twisted this lady's bonnet off, blown her unkempt hair straight out, and otherwise maltreated her, Colonel Wind, with his father and brother, went raging along the streets until he came to the neighbourhood of Whitechapel. The three seemed rather fond of this region, and no wonder; for, although never welcomed, they found themselves strong enough to force an entrance into many a poor home, and to remain in possession.

Swaggering, in their own noisy and violent manner, into several courts and blind alleys, they caught up all the lighter articles of rubbish that lay about, hurled them against the frail and cracked windows—some of which they broke, and others of which they could not break by reason of their having been broken already. They did what was next best, however,—drove in the old hats and coats and other garments, with which the square holes had been inefficiently stopped.

"Jolly! ain't it?" remarked a street boy, with a ruddy face and hair blown straight on end all round, to another street boy with a cast-iron look and a red nose—both being powerfully robust.

"Prime!" asserted the knight of the red nose.

And then both went eagerly to take liberties with a neighbouring pump, from the spout of which hung an icicle like a stalactite, the droppings from which, at an earlier period, had formed a considerable stalagmite on the stones below.

It is probable that the sick old man on the poor bed in the small room close to the pump did not think the state of matters either "jolly" or "prime," for, besides being very old, he was very weak and thin and cold and hungry; in addition to which Jack Frost had seated himself on the rickety chair beside the empty grate, and seemed bent on remaining—the colonel having previously blown open the door and removed a garment which had sheltered the old man's head, thus permitting the major to sprinkle a miniature drift on his pillow.

"I hardly like to leave you, gran'father, in such blustery weather," said a little maiden of about ten years of age, with filthy garments and a dirty face, who, if she had been washed and dressed, would have been distinctly pretty, but who, in the circumstances, was rather plain. As she spoke she re-adjusted the garment-screen and removed the snowdrift.

"Don't say that, Martha," replied the old man in a thin weak voice—it had been strong and deep and resonant once, but Time and Want and Disease play sad havoc with strong men.

"You must go, darling," resumed the old man after a few seconds' pause to recover breath. "You've no chance of a breakfast otherwise. And— perhaps—they may give you a bit to bring home for—"

Martha eagerly interrupted the hesitating voice,—and it was easily interrupted! "Yes, yes, gran'father. They'll be sure to let me bring home some for you. I'll be quite, quite sure to do it."

She made the promise with great decision, as well she might, for she had made up her mind to pocket all the food that was given to her except just a small morsel, which she would nibble in order to make believe that she was feeding!

"Lock the door and put the key in your pocket," said the old man, while the child tucked in about him the thin torn counterpane which formed the only covering to his straw bed. "An' don't fear for me, darling. The Lord is with me. Be sure to eat as much as you can."

Having regard to her secret intentions, Martha refrained from pledging herself, but she laughed and nodded significantly as she quitted the cold, dismal, and shabby room.

It was little Martha's first experience of a "free breakfast." She had, indeed, heard of such a thing before, but had not up to that time met with anything of the kind, so she advanced to "the hall" with some timidity and much expectation.

The hall was very full, and, as poor little Martha was rather late, she could not manage to crush in much beyond the door. Besides, being small, she could see nothing. In these depressing circumstances her heart began to sink, when her attention was attracted by a slight stir outside the door. A lady and gentleman were coming in. It so happened that the lady in passing trod upon one of Martha's cold little toes, and drew from the child a sharp cry.

"Oh, my dear, dear little girl!" cried the shocked lady, with a gush of self-reproach and sympathy, "I'm so sorry—so very, very sorry. It was so stupid of me! Have I hurt you much, dear little girl? Come—come with me."

"Bring her to the stove, Matty, there's more room there to have it looked to," said the gentleman, in a kind voice.

Much consoled by all this, though still whimpering, little Martha suffered herself to be led to the front seats, and set on a bench just below the platform, where she began to bloom under the genial influence of the stove, and to wonder, with inexpressible surprise, at the mighty sea of upturned faces in front of her. As for the toe, it was utterly forgotten. The lady's foot, you see, being almost as light as her heart, had done it no serious injury. Nevertheless, she continued for a few minutes to inspect it earnestly and inquire for it tenderly, regardless of dirt!

"You're sure it is better, dear little child?"

"Oh yes, ma'am, thank you. I don't feel it at all now. An' it's so nice to feel warm again!"

What a depth of meaning was unwittingly given to the last two words by the emphasis of the child-voice.—"Warm"—"Again!" The lady almost burst into tears as she thought of all that they implied. But her services were required at the harmonium. With a parting pat on Martha's curly head, and a bright smile, she hurried away to ascend the platform.

The preliminaries of a feast at which most of the feasters are cold and hungry—some of them starving—should not be long. Full well did Tom Westlake know and appreciate this truth, and, being the donor, originator, and prime mover in the matter, he happily had it all his own way.

In the fewest possible words, and in a good loud voice which produced sudden silence, he asked God to give His blessing with the food provided, and to send His Holy Spirit into the hearts of all present, so that they might be made to hunger and thirst for Jesus, the Bread and Water of Life. Then the poor people had scarcely recovered from their surprise at the brevity of the prayer, when they were again charmed to silence by the sweet strains of the harmonium. You see, they had not yet become blase and incapable of enjoying anything short of an organ. Indeed, there were some among them who deliberately said they preferred a harmonium to an organ!

But no instrument either of ancient or modern invention could drown the clatter that ensued when enormous mugs of earthenware were distributed to the company, by more or less rich and well-off "workers"; so the clatter and the hymns went on together until each lung was filled with some delectable fluid, smoking hot, and each mouth crammed with excellent bread and meat. Then comparative quiet ensued, during which temporary calm Tom read a few verses of the Word of God, commenting on them briefly in language so forcible that it went right home to many hearts, yet so simple that even little Martha understood it.

True to her intention, little Martha, although much surprised and charmed and perplexed by all that was going on around her, did not forget to pocket something for gran'father. She was met, however, by an exasperating difficulty at the very outset. Her pocket was not large enough to contain the huge roll which, with some meat, had been put hastily into her small hand by a lady with a red rose in her bonnet. To achieve her object with the roll and meat in one hand and the mug in the other was, she found, impossible, so she set the mug on the floor between her feet and proceeded to wrestle with the loaf and pocket, having previously torn off a very small portion of the bread for her own use. Still the loaf was too large; so she tore off another morsel, and finally, after a severe struggle, succeeded in getting it and the bit of meat in.

"You'll go for to kick it over, if you don't mind," said a small boy near her, referring to the mug.

"You mind your own business—Imperence!" replied Martha, sharply. It must be remembered that she was a child of the "slums."

"Wot a cheeky little shrimp it is," retorted the boy, with as much of a grin as a stuffed mouth would admit of.

Just then Matilda Westlake, having finished a hymn, and being mindful of the little toe, came quietly down to where Martha was sitting.

"Why, dear child," she said, in surprise, "have they not given you something to eat?"

"Oh yes, ma'am. But I've—"

She was going to say, "I've eaten it," but gran'father had so earnestly impressed on her mind the sinfulness of telling lies, that she felt constrained to hesitate, and, with a trembling lip, finished by saying she had eaten some of it.

"And what has become of the rest, dear?"

"Please, miss, she've putt it in 'er pocket," said "Imperence" promptly.

Without noticing the remark, Matty moved so as to make herself an effectual screen between Imperence and Martha.

"Tell me, dear child," she said, stooping low and putting a gentle hand on Martha's shoulder, "are you not hungry?"

"Oh yes," answered the little one quickly; "I'm so 'ungry. You can't think 'ow 'ungry; but I promised to—to—"

At this point her lip quivered, and she began to cry quietly.

"Stay, don't tell me anything more about it, dear, till you have breakfasted. Here, eat this before you say another word."

She took a roll from the basket of a passing "worker" and put it in the child's hand. Nothing loth, Martha began to eat and drink, mingling a warm tear or two with the hot soup, and venting a sob now and then as she proceeded.

Watching her for a few moments, Matty left her.

In passing she stopped and said to Imperence, in a whisper of terrible intensity, "If you speak to that girl again you shall have—no more."

No more! To be "hanged by the neck till you are dead" would not have sounded so appalling just at that time. So Imperence collapsed.

It is not our purpose to go much further into the details of the feast. Suffice it to say that the poorest of the poor were there; that they were encouraged to eat as much as possible, and allowed to carry away what they could not eat, and there is reason to believe that, judging from the prominence of pockets, a considerable quantity found its way to hungry mouths which had been found incapable of attending the feast.

Among those who did great execution in the pocketing line was, as you may well believe, little Martha. Finding, to her ineffable joy, that there was no limit assigned to consumption, and that pocketing was not esteemed a sin, she proceeded, after stuffing herself, to stuff to overflowing the pocket with which she had previously wrestled, as already described, and then attempted to fill the pocket on the other side. She did so in utter and child-like forgetfulness of the fact that she had recently lost several small articles in consequence of the condition of that pocket, and her memory was not awakened until, having just completed the satisfactory filling of it, she beheld, or rather felt, the entire mass of edibles descending to the floor, proving that the pocket was indeed a very bottomless pit.

"Never mind, little one," said Tom Westlake, coming forward at the moment, for he had just closed the meeting; "I'll find a bag for you to put it in. I hope the toe is all right."

"Oh yes, sir, thank you, it's quite well," answered Martha, blushing through the dirt on her face, as she eyed the fallen food anxiously.

"Tell me now, little one," continued Tom, sitting down on the bench and drawing the child gently towards him, "whom are you pocketing all these good things for?—not for yourself, I'm quite sure of that."

"Oh dear, no, sir; it's for gran'father."

"Indeed. Is grandfather very poor?"

"Oh yes, sir, very, very poor; an' he's got nobody but me to take care of him."

"If that be so, who is taking care of him just now?" asked Matty, who had joined her brother, leaving another "worker" at the harmonium to play the people out,—a difficult thing to do, by the way, for the people seemed very unwilling to go.

You see, among other things, Jack Frost and Sons could gain no footing in that hall, and the people knew only too well that the firm was in great force awaiting them outside.

"Nobody's takin' care on 'im, ma'am," replied Martha, somewhat shyly. "I locked 'im in, an' he's takin' care of hisself."

"Would you like to give grandfather anything in particular, little woman, if a fairy were to offer to give it you?"

"Oh, wouldn't I just?"

"Yes? What would you ask for?"

Martha pursed her little mouth and knitted her brows in thought for a minute. Then she said slowly, "I'd ask for a mug of hot soup, an' a blanket, an' some coals, and—oh! I forgot, a teapot, for ours is cracked an' won't 'old in now."

"Do you live far from this hall?" asked Tom.

"No, sir, quite close."

"Come, Matty, you and I will go with this little one and see grandfather. What is your name, child?"

"Martha Burns, sir."

"Well, Martha, give me your hand, and come along."

They were soon in the shabby little room,—for Martha was eager to give the food to the old man. Of course Jack Frost and Sons were still in possession, but there had come another visitor during the child's absence, whom they were scarce prepared to meet.

Death sat beside the lowly bed. He had not yet laid his hand on his victim, but his chill presence was evidently felt.

"Darling, I'm glad you've come," said the old man, faintly. "I've been longing so for you. Give me your hand, dear. I'm so cold—so cold."

He shivered as he spoke until the miserable bed shook. Poor Martha forgot the food in her anxiety, for a striking change had come over gran'father—such as she had never seen before. She took his thin hand in hers, and began to weep softly.

But Matilda Westlake did not forget the food. She took up the tin can in which it had been brought there, and poured some of the still warm contents into a cracked soup plate that stood on the table. Finding a pewter spoon, she at once put her hand under the pillow, and raising the old man's head gently, began to feed him like a child. Meanwhile Tom Westlake took off his thick overcoat and spread it over the bed. Then he went out, bought some sticks and coal from a neighbour, and, returning, soon kindled a fire in the rusty grate.

The old man did not seem surprised. His face wore a dazed, yet thoroughly pleased, look as he quietly accepted these attentions. All the time he kept fast hold of Martha's hand, and smiled to her once or twice. It was evident that he relished the soup. Only once he broke silence to thank them and say, "Jesus sent you, I suppose?"

"Yes, Jesus sent us," replied Matty, thoroughly meaning what she said.

At that moment Death raised his hand and laid it gently on the old man's brow. The hoary head bowed to the summons, and, with a soft sigh, the glad spirit fled to that region where suffering cannot enter.

Oh, it was sad to witness the child-grief when Martha at last came to understand that gran'father was really gone. And it required no little persuasion to induce her to leave the lowly sordid room that she had known as "home."

While his sister comforted the child, Tom went to the "authorities" to inform them that an old pauper had gone the way of all flesh.

When at last Martha permitted her new friends to remove her, she was led by Miss Westlake to the not far distant house of a lady friend, whose sympathies with the suffering, the sorrowful, and the fallen were so keen that she had given up all and gone to dwell in the midst of them, in the sanguine hope of rescuing some. To this lady's care Martha was in the meantime committed, and then Tom and his sister went their way.

Their way led them to a very different scene not far from the same region.

"We're rather late," remarked Tom, consulting his watch as they turned into a narrow street.

"Not too late, I think," said his sister.

"I hope not, for I should be sorry to go in upon them at dinner-time."

They were not too late. David Butts, whom they were about to visit, was a dock-labourer. In early youth he had been a footman, in which capacity he had made the acquaintance of the Westlakes' nursery-maid, and, having captivated her heart, had carried her off in triumph and married her.

David had not been quite as steady as might have been desired. He had acquired, while in service, a liking for beer, which had degenerated into a decided craving for brandy, so that he naturally came down in the world, until, having lost one situation after another, he finally, with his poor wife and numerous children, was reduced to a state bordering on beggary. But God, who never forgets His fallen creatures, came to this man's help when the tide with him was at its lowest ebb. A humble-minded city missionary was sent to him. He was the means of bringing him to Jesus. The Saviour, using one of the man's companions as an instrument, brought him to a temperance meeting, and there an eloquent, though uneducated, speaker flung out a rope to the struggling man in the shape of a blue ribbon. David Butts seized it, and held on for life. His wife gladly sewed a bit of it on every garment he possessed—including his night-shirt—and the result was that he got to be known at the docks as a steady, dependable man, and found pretty constant employment.

How far Matilda Westlake was instrumental in this work of rescue we need not stop to tell. It is enough to say that she had a hand in it—for her heart yearned towards the nurse, who had been very kind to her when she was a little child.

Jack Frost and his sons, with their usual presumption, were in close attendance on the Westlakes when they knocked at David's door, and when it was opened they rudely brushed past the visitors and sought to enter, but a gush of genial heat from a roaring fire effectually stopped Jack and the major on the threshold, and almost killed them. Colonel Wind, however, succeeded in bursting in, overturning a few light articles, causing the flames to sway, leap, and roar wildly, and scattering ashes all over the room, but his triumph was short-lived. The instant the visitors entered he was locked out, and the door shut against him with a bang.

"It do come rather awkward, sir, 'avin' no entrance 'all," said David, as he made the door fast. "If we even 'ad a porch it would 'elp to keep the wind and snow hout, but I ain't complainin', sir. I've on'y too good reason to be thankful."

"Dear Miss Matilda," said the old nurse, dusting a wooden chair with her apron, and beaming all over with joy, "it's good for sore eyes to see you. Don't mind the child'n, miss, an' do sit down near the fire. I'm sure your feet must be wet—such dreadful weather."

"No, indeed, nurse,—thank you," said Miss Westlake, laughing as she sat down, "my feet are not a bit wet. The frost is so hard that everything is quite dry."

"Now it's no use to tell me that, Miss Matty," said Mrs Butts, with the memory of nursing days strong upon her. "You was always such a dear, thoughtless child! Don't you remember that day when you waded in baby's bath, an' then said you wasn't wet a bit, only a very little, an' you rather liked it? Indeed she did: you needn't laugh, Master Tom, I remember it as well as if it happened yesterday."

"I don't in the least doubt you, Mrs Butts," said Tom, "I was only laughing at my sister's idea of dryness. But you must not let us interrupt you in your cooking operations, else we will go away directly. Just go about it as if we were not here, for I have some business matters to talk over with your husband."

"Go away?" echoed Mrs Butts; "you must not talk of going away till you've had a bite of lunch with us. It's our dinner, you know, but lawks! what do it matter what you calls it so long as you've got it to eat? An' there's such a splendid apple dumplin' in the pot, miss; you see, it's Tommy's birthday, for he was born on a Christmas Day, an' he's very fond of apple dumplin', is Tommy."

The six children, of various ages and sizes scattered about the small room, betrayed lively interest in this invitation—some hoping that it would be accepted; others as evidently hoping that it would be declined. As for Tommy, his fear that the dumpling would be too small for the occasion, filled his heart with anxiety that showed itself strongly in his face, but he was promptly relieved by Miss Matty assuring his mother that to stay was impossible, as they had other visits to pay that day.

Thus the lady and nurse chatted of past and present days, while Tom Westlake talked "business" with the dock-labourer.

"You seem to be getting on pretty comfortably now," remarked Tom.

"Yes, sir, thank God I am. Ever since I was enabled to cry, 'God be merciful to me a sinner,' things 'as gone well with me. An' the puttin' on o' the blue ribbon, sir, 'as done me a power o' good. You see, before that I was sorely tempted by comrades offerin' me a glass, and by my own wish to 'ave a glass, but when I mounted the blue I was let alone, though they chaffed me now an' then, an' I felt it was no use thinkin' about it, 'owever much I might wish for it. The missus, bless 'er 'art, sewed a bit o' blue on my night-shirt in fun, but d'ee know, sir, I do believe it's that 'as cured me o' dreamin' about it, as I used to do."

"I'm glad to hear that, Butts," said Tom, with a laugh. "Now, tell me; how long is it since you tasted strong drink?"

"Six months this very day, sir."

"And are you satisfied that you are better without it?"

"Better without it, sir," repeated Butts, with energy, "in course I am— better in body and better in soul, also in pocket. Of course you know, sir, we don't carry on every day with such fires an' dinners as we're a-goin' in for to-day—for Christmas on'y comes once a year, and sometimes we've been slack at the docks, an' once or twice I've bin laid up, so that we've bin pinched a bit now an' then, but we've bin able to make the two ends meet, and the older child'n is beginnin' to turn in a penny now an' again, so, you see, sir, though the fires ain't always bright, an Jack Frost do manage to git in through the key 'ole rather often just now, on the whole we're pretty comfortable."

"I'm glad to hear it, Butts; very glad to hear it indeed," said Tom, "because I'm anxious to help you, and I make it a point only to help those who help themselves. Six months of steadiness goes a long way to prove that your craving for drink has been cured, and that your reformation is genuine; therefore, I am able now to offer you a situation as porter in a bank, which for some time I have kept open on purpose to be ready for you. How will that suit you—eh?"

Whatever David Butts replied, or meant to reply, could only be gathered from his gratified expression, for at that moment his voice was drowned by a shriek of delight from the youngest children, in consequence of Mrs Butts, at Matilda's request, having removed the lid of the pot which held the dumpling, and let out a deliciously-scented cloud of steam. It was almost too much for the little ones, whose mouths watered with anticipation, and who felt half inclined to lay violent hands on the pot and begin dinner without delay.

"Now, I know by the smell that it is quite ready, so we will say good-bye at once," said Matilda, getting up with a smile, and drawing her warm cloak round her. "Be sure to send your eldest girl to me to-morrow along with your husband."

"And come early, Butts," said Tom Westlake, buttoning up his coat.

"You may depend on me, sir."

"Stand by to shut the door quickly after us," added Tom as he grasped the handle, "else the wind will get in and blow the fire about."

The brother and sister, being young and active, were pretty smart in making their exit, and David Butts, being used to doors, was not slow to shut his own, but they could not altogether baffle the colonel, for he was waiting outside. Indeed, he had been whistling with furious insolence through the keyhole all the time of the visit. Sliding in edgewise, at the moment of opening, he managed to scatter the ashes again, and whirl about some of the light articles before he was fairly expelled.

Thereafter, along with his father and brother, he went riotously after Tom and Matilda Westlake, sometimes shrieking over their heads; now and then dashing on in front, and, whirling round in an eddy, plunging straight back into their faces, but they could make nothing of it. The brother and sister merely laughed at them, and defied them to do their worst, even, in the joy of their hearts, going the length of saying to several utter but beaming strangers, that it was "splendid Christmas weather." And so it was,—to the young and strong. Not so, alas! to the old and feeble.

It almost seemed as if Colonel Wind and Major Snow had taken offence at this last sally, for about that time of the day they forsook their father and left London—probably to visit the country. At all events, the clouds cleared away, the sky became blue, and the sun shone out gloriously—though without perceptibly diminishing the frost.

After spending another hour or two in paying visits, during which they passed abruptly, more than once, from poverty-stricken scenes of moderate mirth to abodes of sickness and desolation, Tom and Matilda, by means of 'bus and cab, at last found themselves in the neighbourhood of the Serpentine.

"What say you to a turn on the ice, Matty?"

"Charming," cried Matty.

Society on the Serpentine, when frozen over, is not very select, but the brother and sister were not particular on that point just then. They hired skates; they skimmed about over the well-swept surface; they tripped over innumerable bits of stick or stone or orange-peel; they ran into, or were run into by, various beings whose wrong-headedness induced a preference for skating backwards. In short, they conducted themselves as people usually do on skates, and returned home pretty well exhausted and blooming.

That evening, after a family dinner, at which a number of young cousins and other relatives were present, Tom and his sister left the festive circle round the fire, and retired to a glass conservatory opening out of the drawing-room. There was a sofa in it and there they found Ned Westlake extended at full length. He rose at once and made room for them.

"Well, Ned, how have you enjoyed yourself to-day?" asked Tom.

"Oh, splendidly! There was such a jolly party in Wharton's grounds— most of them able to skate splendidly. The pond is so sheltered that the wind scarcely affected us, and a staff of sweepers cleared away the snow as fast as it fell. Afterwards, when it cleared up and the sun shone through the trees, it was absolutely magnificent. It's the jolliest day I've had on the ice for years, though I'm almost knocked up by it. Jovially fatigued, in fact. But where have you been?"

"We also have been skating," said Matilda.

"Indeed! I thought you had intended to spend the day somewhere in the east-end attending some of those free breakfasts, and visiting the poor, or something of that sort—as if there were not enough of city missionaries, and sisters of mercy, or charity, or whatever you call them, to look after such things."

"You are right, Ned," said Tom, "such was our intention, and we carried it out too. It was only at the end of the day that we took to skating on the Serpentine, and, considering the number of people we have run into, or overturned, or tumbled over, we found a couple of hours of it quite sufficient."

From this point Tom Westlake "harked back" and related his experiences of the day. He possessed considerable power of graphic delineation, and gradually aroused the interest of his gay and volatile but kindly-disposed brother.

"Ned," said he, at last, "do you really believe in the truth of these words, 'Blessed are they that consider the poor?'"

"Yes, Tom, I do," replied Ned, becoming suddenly serious.

What Tom said to his brother after that we will not relate, but the result was that, before that Christmas evening closed, he succeeded in convincing Ned that a day of "jolly good fun" may be rendered inexpressibly more "jolly," by being commenced with an effort to cheer and lighten the lot of those into whose sad lives there enter but a small amount of jollity and far too little fun.



STORY THREE, CHAPTER 1.

A DOUBLE RESCUE—INTRODUCTION.

It is a curious and interesting fact that Christmas-tide seemed to have a peculiar influence on the prospects of our hero Jack Matterby, all through his life. All the chief events of his career, somehow, happened on or about Christmas Day.

Jack was born, to begin with, on a Christmas morning. His father, who was a farmer in the middle ranks of life, rejoiced in the fact, esteeming it full of promise for the future. So did his mother. Jack himself did not at first seem to have any particular feeling on the subject. If one might judge his opinions by his conduct, it seemed that he was rather displeased than otherwise at having been born; for he spent all the first part of his natal day in squalling and making faces, as though he did not like the world at all, and would rather not have come into it.

"John, dear," said his mother to his father, one day not long after his birth, "I'm so glad he is a boy. He might have been a girl, you know."

"No, Molly; he could never have been a girl!" replied the husband, as he gently patted his wife's shoulder.

"Now, don't laugh at me, John, dear. You know what I mean. But what shall we call him?"

"John, of course," replied the farmer, with decision. "My father was called John, and his father was called John, and also his grandfather, and so on back, I have no doubt, to the very beginning of time."

"Nay, John," returned his wife, simply, "that could hardly be; for however many of your ancestors may have been Johns, the first, you know, was Adam."

"Why, Molly, you're getting to be quite sharp," returned the farmer. "Nevertheless this little man is to be John, like the rest of us."

Mrs Matterby, being meek, gave in; but she did so with a sigh, for she wished the little one to be named Joseph, after her own deceased father.

Thus it came to pass that the child was named John. The name was expanded to Johnny during the first period of childhood. Afterwards it was contracted to Jack, and did not attain to the simple grandeur of John till the owner of it became a man.

In the Johnny period of life our hero confined his attention almost exclusively to smashing and overturning. To overturn and to destroy were his chief amusements. He made war on crockery to such an extent that tea-cups and saucers were usually scarce in the family. He assaulted looking-glasses so constantly, that there was, ere long, barely enough of mirror left for his father to shave in. As to which fact the farmer used to say, "Never mind, Molly. Don't look so down-hearted, lass. If he only leaves a bit enough to see a corner of my chin and the half of my razor, that will do well enough." No window in the family mansion was thoroughly whole, and the appearance of a fat little fist, on the wrong side of a pane of glass, was quite a familiar object in the nursery.

As for toys—Johnny had none, so to speak. He had only a large basket full of bits, the misapplication of which to each other gave him many hours of profound recreation. Everything that would turn inside out was so turned. Whatever was by nature straight he bent, whatever bent he straightened. Round things he made square when possible, and square things round; soft things hard, and hard things soft. In short, nothing was too hard for Johnny. Everything that came into his clutches, was subjected to what we may style the influence of experimental philosophy; and if Farmer Matterby had been a poor man he must soon have been ruined, but, being what is styled "well-to-do," he only said, in reference to these things—

"Go ahead, my boy. Make hay while the sun shines. If you carry on as you've begun, you'll make your mark somewhere in this world."

"Alas!" remarked poor Mrs Matterby, "he has made his mark already everywhere, and that a little too freely!"

Nevertheless she was proud of her boy, and sought to subdue his spirit by teaching him lessons of self-denial and love out of the Word of God. Johnny listened intently to these lessons, gazing with large wondering eyes, though he understood little of the teaching at first. It was not all lost on him, however; and he thoroughly understood and reciprocated the deep love that beamed in his mother's eyes.

Soon after Johnny had slid into the Jack period of life he became acquainted with a fisher-boy of his own age, whose parents dwelt in a cottage on the sea-shore, not a quarter of a mile from his own home, and close to the village of Blackby.

Natty Grove was as fine a little fellow as one could wish to see: fair, curly-headed, blue-eyed, rough-jacketed, and almost swallowed up in a pair of his father's sea-boots, which had been cut down in the legs to fit him. As to the feet!—well, as his father Ned Grove remarked, there was plenty of room for growth. Natty had no mother, but he had a little sister about three years of age, and a grandmother, who might have been about thirty times three. No one could tell her age for certain; but she was so old and wrinkled and dried up and withered and small, that she might certainly have claimed to be "the oldest inhabitant." She had been bed-ridden for many years because of what her son called rum-matticks and her grandson styled rum-ticks.

The name of Natty's little sister was Nellie; that of his grandmother, Nell—old Nell, as people affectionately called her.

Now it may perhaps surprise the reader to be told that Jack Matterby, at the age of nine years, was deeply in love. He had, indeed, been in that condition, more or less from the age of three, but the passion became more decided at nine. He was in love with Nell—not blue-eyed little Nellie, but with wrinkled old Nell; for that antiquated creature was brimming over with love to mankind, specially to children. On our hero she poured out such wealth of affection that he was powerfully attracted to her even in the period of Johnny-hood, and, as we have said, she captured him entirely when he reached Jack-hood.

Old Nell was a splendid story-teller. That was one of the baits with which she was fond of hooking young people. It was interesting to sit in the fisherman's poor cottage and watch the little ones sitting open-mouthed and eyed, gazing at the withered little face, in which loving-kindness, mingling with fun, beamed from the old eyes, played among the wrinkles, smiled on the lips, and asserted itself in the gentle tones.

"Jack," said Mrs Matterby, on the Christmas morning which ushered in her boy's ninth birthday, "come, I'm going to give you a treat to-day."

"You always do, mammy, on my birthdays," said Jack.

"I want you to go with a message to a poor woman," continued the mother.

"Is that all?" exclaimed Jack, with a disappointed look.

"Yes, that's all—or nearly all," replied his mother, with a twinkle in her eye, however, which kept her son from open rebellion. "I want you to carry this basket of good things, with my best love and Christmas good-wishes, to old Nell Grove."

"Oho!" exclaimed Jack, brightening up at once, "I'm your man; here, give me the basket. But, mother," he added with a sudden look of perplexity, "you called old Nell a poor woman, and I've heard her sometimes say that she has everything that she needs and more than she deserves! She can't be poor if that's true, and it must be true; for you know that old Nell never, never tells lies."

"True, Jack; old Nell is not poor in one sense: she is rich in faith. She has got 'contentment with godliness,' and many rich people have not got that. Nevertheless she has none too much of the necessaries of this life, and none at all of the luxuries, so that she is what people usually call poor."

"That's a puzzler, mammy—poor and rich both!"

"I daresay it is a puzzler," replied Mrs Matterby, with a laugh, "but be off with your basket and message, my son; some day you shall understand it better."

Pondering deeply on this "puzzler," the boy went off on his mission, trudging through the deep snow which whitened the earth and brightened that Christmas morning.

"She's as merry as a cricket to-day," said Natty Grove, who opened the cottage door when his friend knocked.

"Yes, as 'erry as a kiket," echoed flaxen-haired Nellie, who stood beside him.

"She's always 'erry," said Jack, giving the little girl a gentle pull of the nose by way of expressing good will. "A merry Christmas both! How are you? See here, what mother has sent to old Nell."

He opened the lid of the basket. Nattie and Nellie peeped in and snuffed.

"Oh! I say!" said the fisher-boy. He could say no more, for the sight and scent of apples, jelly, roast fowl, home-made pastry, and other things was almost too much for him.

"I expected it, dearie," said old Nell, extending her withered hand to the boy as he set the basket on the table. "Every Christmas morning, for years gone by, she has sent me the same, though I don't deserve it, and I've no claim on her but helplessness. But it's the first time she has sent it by you, Jack. Come, I'll tell ye a story."

Jack was already open-eyed with expectancy and he was soon open-mouthed, forgetful of past and future, absorbed entirely in the present. Natty and Nelly were similarly affected and like-minded, while the little old woman swept them away to the wilds of Siberia, and told them of an escape from unjust banishment, of wanderings in the icy wilderness, and of starvation so dire that the fugitives were reduced to gnawing and sucking the leathern covers of their wallets for dear life. Then she told of food sent at the last moment, almost by miracle, and of hair-breadth escapes, and final deliverance. Somehow—the listeners could not have told how—old Nell inserted a reference to the real miracle of Jesus feeding the five thousand, and she worked round to it so deftly, that it seemed an essential part of the story; and so indeed it was, for Nell intended the key-stone of the arch of her story to be the fact that, when man is reduced to the last extremity God steps in to save.

It is certain that little Nellie did not understand the moral of the story, and it is uncertain how far the boys appreciated it; but it was old Nell's business to sow the seed beside all waters, and leave the rest to Him who gave the command.

"Yes, dearies," she said in conclusion, laying her hand on the basket, "I expected this gift this morning; but many a time does our Father in heaven send a blessin' when an' where we don't expect it. Mind that—mind ye that."

Jack had more than enough of mental food to digest that morning as he retraced his steps homeward through the deep snow; for he found that old Nell, not less than his mother, had treated him to a few puzzlers. Poor boy, he little knew as he plodded on that he was that day about to enter into one of the darkest clouds of his young life.

During his absence a letter had been received by his father, intimating that through the failure of a bank he was a ruined man. The shock had paralysed the farmer, and when Jack entered his home he found him lying on his bed in a state of insensibility, from which he could not be rallied. A few days later the old man died.

Farmer Matterby's widow had few relatives, and none of these were in circumstances to help her in the day of trial. They and her numerous friends did indeed what they could. Besides offering sincere sympathy, they subscribed and raised a small sum to enable the bereaved woman and her only child to tide over present difficulties, but they could not enable her to continue to work the farm, and as most of her late husband's kindred had migrated to Canada, she had no one from whom she could naturally claim counsel or aid. She was therefore thrown entirely on God; and it was with strange and solemn feelings that Jack kneeled by her side, and heard her pray in tones of anguish for help, light, and guidance, and especially that, whatever might become of herself, her dear boy might be preserved from evil and guided in ways of righteousness.

A few months later, and the widow, gathering the small remnant of her possessions together, set off with her little boy to seek employment in London. How many poor souls, in various ranks of life, must have turned their steps, in days gone by, towards that giant city in the sanguine hope of bettering their condition! Mrs Matterby had no friends to whom she could go in London; but she could paint and draw and sing, and was fairly educated. She would teach. In the meantime she had a little money to start with. Entertaining a suspicion that it might be considered a wildish scheme by her friends and neighbours, she resolved to say nothing about her plans to any one, save that she was going to London for a time.

It was a touching scene, the parting of Jack and the Grove family. The sturdy fisherman was at sea at the time, but old Nell was in her accustomed corner in the lowly bed with the ragged counterpane, where her uneventful, yet happy, life was spent; and little curly-headed Nellie was there, playing with the cat; and Natty was there, cutting out a first-rate man of war with a huge knife.

"Granny," (Jack always called her "granny" like the rest), "granny, I've come to say good-bye. I am going away f-f-for ever an' ever!"

"Amen!" responded Natty, from the mere force of habit, for he was a constant responder at granny's family worship.

"Ye don't know that, darlin'," replied old Nell. "The Lord leads us in ways that we know not, an' it may be His good pleasure to bring you here again."

"N-no; I'm quite sure I'll never see you again," returned the boy, giving way to the sobs which he could not restrain. "M-mother says we will never come back again,—n-never, never more—"

He broke down entirely at this point, and a few silent tears trickled over the kind old face of Nell. Natty was too much of a man to give way out and out, but he snivelled a little in spite of himself. As for Nellie, she stood there in open-eyed wonder, for she failed to quite understand the situation. We will not prolong the painful scene. When at length Jack had taken leave of them all—had kissed the two Nells and shaken hands with Natty—the younger Nell seemed to realise the facts of the case; for Jack saw her, as he glanced back for the last time, suddenly shut her large blue eyes, throw back her curly little head, open wide her pretty little mouth, and howl miserably.



STORY THREE, CHAPTER 2.

LOST IN LONDON.

London in a fog is too well known to require description. In an uncommonly thick fog, on a day in December of the following year, Mrs Matterby hurried along Fleet Street in the direction of the city, leading Jack by the hand. Both were very wet, very cold, ravenously hungry, and rather poorly clad. It was evident that things had not prospered with the widow.

"Dear Jack," she said in a choking voice, as they hurried along the streets towards the wretched abode in the Tower Hamlets, to which they had been at length reduced, "dear Jack, my last human hope has failed. Mr Block has told me that I need not go there again; he has no more work for me."

Jack's experience of life was too limited to enable him to understand fully the depth of distress, to which his mother had fallen—with health broken, money expended, and work not to be had except on terms which rendered life a misery, and prolonged existence almost an impossibility. But Jack's power of sympathy was strong and his passions were vehement.

"Mother," he said, with tearful eyes, as he clung closer to her side, "I would kill Mr Block if I could!"

"Hush, dear boy! You know that would be wrong and could do no good. It is sinful even to feel such a desire."

"How can I help it, mother!" returned Jack indignantly. Then he asked, "What are we going to do now, mother?"

For some time the poor widow did not reply; then she spoke in a low tone, as if murmuring to herself, "The last sixpence gone; the cupboard empty; nothing—nothing left to pawn—"

She stopped short, and glanced hastily at her marriage ring.

"Mother," said Jack, "have you not often told me that God will not forsake us? Does it not seem as if He had forsaken us now?"

"It only seems like it, darling," returned the widow hurriedly. "We don't understand His ways. 'Though He slay me, yet will I trust Him!'"

It seemed as if God were about to test the faith of His servant, for at that moment a cab drove furiously round the corner of a street and knocked her down. Jack was overturned at the same time. Recovering himself, instantly, he found his mother in a state of unconsciousness, with blood flowing from a deep cut in her forehead. In a state of semi-bewilderment the poor boy followed the stretcher, on which Mrs Matterby was carried to the nearest hospital, where he waited while his mother's injuries were examined.

"My boy," said a young surgeon, returning to the waiting room, and patting Jack's head, "your mother has been rather badly hurt. We must keep her here to look after her. I daresay we shall soon make her well. Meanwhile you had better run home, and tell your father—if, that is— your father is at home, I suppose?"

"No, sir; father's dead."

"Well then your sister or aunt—I suppose there's some relative at home older than yourself?"

"No, sir; none but mother an' me," whispered Jack.

"No relations of any kind at all in London?"

"None, sir. We know nobody—at least not many, and they're all strangers."

"A sad case," murmured the surgeon. "Your mother is poor, I suppose?"

"Very poor, sir."

"But of course you have a home of some sort, somewhere?"

"Yes, it's not far from here."

"Well, them, you'd better go home just now, for you can't see your mother to-night. We dare not let her speak, but come back early to-morrow, and you shall hear about her—perhaps see her. Here, put that in your pocket."

Poor Jack took the shilling which the sympathetic surgeon thrust into his hand, and ran home in a state bordering on distraction; but it was not till he entered the shabby little room which he had begun to consider "home" that he realised the full weight of the calamity that had befallen him. No mother's voice to welcome him; no bit of fire in the grate to warm; no singing kettle to cheer, or light of candle to dispel the gloom of rapidly approaching night.

It was Christmas Day too. In the morning he had gone forth with his mother—she in the sanguine hope of renewing an engagement in a clothier's shop, which terminated that day; he in the expectation of getting a few jobs of some sort—messages to run or horses to hold. Such were the circumstances to which they had been reduced in twelve months, Jack had arranged to call for his mother and walk home with her. On the way they were to invest a very small part of the widow's earnings in "something nice" for their Christmas supper, and spend the evening together, chatting about the old home in Blackby, and father, and Natty Grove, and Nellie, and old Nell, in the happy days gone by.

"And now!" thought Jack, seating himself on his little bed and glancing at that of his mother, which stood empty in the opposite corner—"now!—"

But Jack could think no more. A tremendous agony rent his breast, and a sharp cry escaped from him as he flung himself on his bed and burst into a passion of tears.

Child-like, he sobbed himself to sleep, and did not awake till the sun was high next morning. It was some time before he could recall what had occurred. When he did so he began to weep afresh. Leaping up, he was about to rush out of the house and make for the hospital, when he was checked at the door by the landlord—a hard, grinding, heartless man, who grew rich in oppressing the poor.

"You seem to be in a hurry, youngster," he said, dragging the boy back by the collar, and looking hurriedly round the room. "I've come for the rent. Where's your mother?"

In a sobbing voice Jack told him about the accident.

"Well, I don't really believe you," said the man, with an angry frown; "but I'll soon find out if you're telling lies. I'll go to the hospital and inquire for myself. D'ee know anything about your mother's affairs?"

"No, sir," said Jack, meekly, for he began to entertain a vague terror of the man.

"No; I thought not. Well, I'll enlighten you. Your mother owes me three weeks' rent of this here room, and has got nothing to pay it with, as far as I knows, except these sticks o' furniture. Now, if your mother is really in hospital, I'll come back here and bundle you out, an' sell the furniture to pay my rent. I ain't a-goin' to be done out o' my money because your mother chooses to git run'd over."

The landlord did not wait for a reply, but went out and slammed the door.

Jack followed him in silent horror. He watched him while he inquired at the gate of the hospital, and, after he had gone, went up timidly, rang the bell, and asked for his mother.

"Mrs Matterby?" repeated the porter. "Come in; I'll make inquiry."

The report which he brought back fell like the blow of a sledge-hammer on the poor boy's heart. His mother, they told him, was dead. She had died suddenly in the night.

There are times of affliction, when the human soul fails to find relief in tears or cries. Poor Jack Matterby stood for some time motionless, as if paralysed, with glaring eyes and a face not unlike to that of death. They sought to rouse him, but he could not speak. Suddenly, observing the front door open, he darted out into the street, and ran straight home, where he flung himself on his mother's bed, and burst into an uncontrollable flood of tears. By degrees the passion subsided, leaving only a stunned feeling behind, under the influence of which he lay perfectly still.

The first thing that roused him was the sound of a heavy foot on the stair. The memory of the landlord flashed into his mind and filled him with indescribable dread—dread caused partly by the man's savage aspect and nature, but much more by the brutal way in which he had spoken about his mother. The only way in which to avoid a meeting was to rush past the man on the stair. Fear and loathing made the poor boy forget, for the moment, his crushing sorrow. He leaped up, opened the door, and, dashing downstairs, almost overturned the man who was coming up. Once in the street, he ran straight on without thought, until he felt that he was safe from pursuit. Then he stopped, and sat down on a door-step—to think what he should do; for, having been told that the furniture of his old home was to be sold, and himself turned out, he felt that returning there would be useless, and would only expose him to the risk of meeting the awful landlord. While he was yet buried in thought, one of those sprightly creatures of the great city, known as street arabs, accosted him in a grave and friendly tone.

"My sweet little toolip," he said, "can I do anythink for you?"

Despite his grief Jack could scarcely forbear smiling at the absurdity of the question.

"No, thank you," he replied.

"Well now, look 'ere, my toolip," returned the arab in a confidential tone, "I've took quite a fancy to you; you've got such a look, some'ow, of my poor old grandmother. Now, if you've no objection, I'd like to give you your breakfast. You're 'ungry, I suppose?"

Jack admitted that he was, and, after a moment's hesitation, accepted this surprisingly kind and liberal offer. Taking him promptly by the arm his new friend hurried him to a pastry-cook's shop, and bade him "smell that," referring to the odours that ascended through a grating.

"Ain't it 'eavenly?" he asked, with sparkling eyes.

Jack admitted that it was very nice.

"So green, an' yet so fair!" murmured the arab, casting a look of admiration on his companion. "Now I means to go into that there shop," he added, returning to the confidential tone, "an' buy breakfast for you—for both on us. But I couldn't go in, you know, with this 'ere shabby coat on, 'cause they wouldn't give me such good wittles if I did. Just change coats with me for a few minutes. What! You doubt me? No one ever doubted Bob Snobbins without—without a-'urtin' of his feelin's."

Whatever might have caused Jack to hesitate, the injured look on young Snobbins' countenance and the hurt tone were too much for him. He exchanged coats with the young rascal, who, suddenly directing Jack's attention to some imaginary object of interest at one end of the street, made off at full speed towards the other end. Our hero was, however, a famous runner. He gave chase, caught the arab in a retired alley, and gave him an indignant punch in the head.

But although Jack had plenty of courage and a good deal of strength, he was no match for a street warrior like Bob Snobbins, who turned about promptly, blackened both his opponent's eyes, bled his nose, swelled his lips, and finally knocked him into a pool of dirty water, after which he fled, just as a policeman came on the scene.