Storm of life

The round, red Sun was sinking low in the wintry sky, though it was yet early in the afternoon, for the December days were but just past their shortest, and nightfall came too soon for busy workers. The old year was not quite ended, and Christmas Day was not yet forgotten, with its good cheer and merriment. Even in the jail at Thornbury there had been a Christmas dinner, and the prisoners' dismal chapel had been decorated with green ivy and the red berries of the holly, bringing back to their minds memories of their childhood, before sin had laid its heavy hand upon them, when they too had gone carol-singing through the frosty lanes, between leafless hedge-rows and glistening snow-drifts. A strange clergyman had preached to them on Christmas morning; he had looked down on several drooping heads and faces hidden behind trembling hands, especially among the female prisoners, whose hearts were most easily touched by thoughts of old Christmas days and their innocent pleasures. He had never preached from a prison pulpit before, and his voice faltered and his heart yearned with pity over the outcasts before him; his Christmas Day was saddened. But he was a stranger; the prison chaplain, who was absent through illness, had grown used to the sight of all those hard, unhappy faces, which looked at him from the solitary pews, where each one sat alone in misery and degradation.

Christmas Day was over, but New Year's Day was yet to come. To-morrow would be the last day of the old year. Probably there was but one prisoner who took any notice of the date. There was only one whose term of punishment was ended on the last day of the year. She had placed a little box on her stool, and was standing tip-toe on the top of them, just reaching above the high window-sill with her eyes, as she gazed eagerly at the setting sun. She could see nothing save the sky, with its pale wintry blue, and the low, red bank of clouds under the sun. There was not a speck of ground visible to her, or any trace of dwelling-places and homes, of which there were thousands in the town close by. There was the sky only, and that was growing dark. The bare little cell behind her would soon be filled with the darkness, and no light would be allowed for an hour longer. She could hear a robin singing somewhere out of sight, and once a rook flew with heavy wings across the field of sky on which she gazed through the narrow window of her cell. "To-morrow!" she murmured to herself, "to-morrow!" She would be free again, like the birds, to-morrow. Early in the morning the great gates which had closed so heavily upon her would open again and let her out, to choose her own way and follow her own path.

She could not stand long on the high post she had climbed to, holding on by her prison bars, though she wanted to see the sun go down behind the bank of clouds. How terribly long the coming night would be! It seemed impossible for her to pass through its dreary hours patiently. Her task was finished, the last prison work she would have to do. Yet if she had a violent outbreak now, such as she had yielded to during the first year of her imprisonment, that would bring some days, perhaps some weeks more of confinement. She recalled to her mind the dark cell in which she had so often been buried before her wild, ungovernable spirit had been tamed into obedience. That dark, terrible cell, where no welcome sound broke the silence, and no ray of light stole in to divide the day from the night! If she should get in there to-night, the last night of all, what would become of her? It would drive her into madness; there would be no chance of keeping her wits; she must keep herself calm and quiet now.

But how was she to do it, with her heart beating and every pulse in her head throbbing till she could not keep herself quiet for a moment? After a minute or two of restless exhaustion, she climbed up again to bring her eyes once more on a level with the window-sill. The sun had just sunk behind the clouds, and the clocks in the church towers in the town below chimed half-past four o'clock. Only half-past four, and she could not in any case be set free before eight the next morning. Fifteen hours and a half! They seemed as long as so many weeks; longer than the weeks had seemed only three or four months ago. It was only of late that the days had dragged so heavily, and her patience had been more sorely tried than before. In the last three months the prospect of her release had made prison work and prison rules more irksome to her; though she had not shown any temper or impatience either to the warder, or her friend, the chaplain. But to-night the storm grew worse and worse. How could she fight against it till the morning came?

"Help me! help me!" she whispered through the bars of the window to which she clung. She scarcely knew to whom she was crying. She was straining her eyes to look up into the pale sky, where the evening clouds were gathering, and it seemed to her, excited and disturbed as she was, that a face looked down upon her out of the dimness, a sorrowful, pitying face, with a crown of thorns about the head. Only for one moment; her eyes lost sight of it instantly. But she crept down from the window-sill, and, crouching upon the floor beneath, covered up her face and cried softly and quietly to herself.

By-and-by her quick ear caught the sound of footsteps treading the long corridor outside, and they ceased before her door. She knew someone was peering in through the grated hole in the door through which she herself could be watched at any hour of the day or night. It was almost dark in her cell now, but she had quickly sprung up from her crouching attitude, and was sitting on the stool, with her hands folded on her lip. She heard the key turn almost noiselessly in the lock, and her warder entered with a carefully-guarded lamp and lighted the gas, which, like everything else in this dismal place, was kept under lock and key.

"Rachel Trevor," she said in a pleasant voice, "the time feels long to you now, doesn't it? It's hard work waiting for to-morrow."

"Ay, it is," sobbed Rachel; "I feel as if I'd be sure to die before to-morrow comes. Stay with me a little bit, ma'am; do, please. Talk to me a minute or two; for I'm sore afraid of breaking out at the very last of all, or goin' stark mad. I'm trying hard to be quiet and peaceable; but I can hardly bear it."

"I'll give you something to think about that will help to keep you quiet," said the warder gravely. "Rachel, the chaplain's dead!"

"Dead!" she cried, "no, no! not dead! Don't say he's dead!"

"Yes, we've lost him," said the warder; "he was a good friend to you, ay, and all of us. He died on Christmas Eve, just as they were singing carols under his window and all the bells ringing. It was at his old home where he was born. We didn't hear about it for a day or two. He had a letter written for him when he lay a-dying to be given to you, Rachel, the night before you went away from here. You can read it for yourself alone; for he told him that wrote it to write it large and plain, so that you could make it out for yourself."

"It was him taught me to read, and write too," sobbed Rachel, "I've lost my only friend. He cared for me when I was worst. Oh! what shall I do? What shall I do?"

"Haven't you any friends to go to?" asked the warder.

"I haven't had a friend to ask after me since I was sent here," she answered, "not one. My husband---he was sent to Gibraltar for ten years, you know. And there's my little Rosy---she's in the workhouse at Aston; I shall go and take her out tomorrow. She's such a little beauty. I hope they've never told her where her mother's been all this while! But I haven't a friend in all the world now."

"Dear! dear! that's bad," said the warder, sighing. She did not know what else she could say. Now the chaplain was dead, there was no one she knew of who would think of stretching out a hand to help a woman just out of jail, after a long term of imprisonment for house-breaking. The crime had been a particularly daring one, and Rachel had taken a foremost part in it. Who would think of employing such a woman, whose husband was still in penal service?

"Dear! dear! that's very bad!" repeated the warder.

"Ay! it is," said Rachel, absently. She was holding the chaplain's letter between her hands, and the tears were falling fast upon it. He had been her only friend; and now, at the very moment when she needed him most, she had lost him. Yet, her sorrow was, that she should never see him again, and never speak to him as a free woman; she scarcely thought of the help he would have given her, in beginning a new life outside the jail. He had come so often, and so patiently to her cell, lightening the heaviness of her long imprisonment, and bearing with her stupidity and temper, and now she could never show her love and gratitude to him! She had wanted to bring her little Rosy for him to see, as soon as she was out of jail. She had loved him; and longed to be good that he might be glad; and he would never know it. Now he was gone for ever, and she was left alone, to be good or wicked, happy or miserable, with no one to care for her.

"Well, well!" said the warder, "read your letter, and I hope it will comfort you."

As soon as she was alone in the cell, Rachel opened her letter with trembling fingers. Her eyes were dim with tears, and she could not read it readily, for it was only within the last two years, that, to please the chaplain, she had set herself to learn to read and write. But after long poring over it, and spelling over and over again many of the words, a glimmering of what the letter meant broke faintly upon her mind.

Half aloud, with sobs breaking in between the words, Rachel spelt through this last letter from her friend. The hours did not drag by heavily now; she was no longer afraid of an outbreak. She knelt down, with the letter in her hands, feeling as if God would be sure to listen more willingly. But she could say nothing save "Thou God seest me!"

She had never been sure of this till now. God had seen her through all her wild and wicked life, with its thousands of wicked days and sinful nights. There was hardly an hour she could look back upon, since her early childhood, which had not been blackened and disgraced by her own vice, and the vice of her chosen companions. She had followed her own way without hindrance; and it had been a very bad way. At this moment she was a prisoner, suffering the penalty of her crimes, without a friend in the world. And God had seen it all!

It had been a terrible moment to her when she heard the jury utter the word "Guilty," and when the judge had condemned her to her long punishment. But now it seemed a hundred times more terrible to think of appearing before a Judge whose eye had been upon her all her life long, and who needed no witnesses of any kind to tell Him every sin she had committed against His good and just laws. Her conscience was fully awakened. This letter, which had come to her from one who was dead, her only friend, spoke to her more powerfully than the chaplain's living voice had ever spoken. "Thou God seest me," she whispered; and that God heard her whisper she knew in her inmost heart.

They were the last words she uttered before she fell asleep, and the first when she awoke in the morning. The prison bell aroused her as usual; and she lifted herself wearily from her hard mattress to begin another day of prison life. But that was only for an instant. The glad thought flashed, like a sudden gleam of light, through her heart, that to-day she was free, to-day she would see her little girl again. The warder brought a bundle containing her own clothes, and carried away her prison dress. How her hands shook as she unfolded the gown she had been wearing when she was taken up for the crime she had committed. All the long years seemed to be wiped out like a dream when one awakes. The blue dress, with that little hole torn in it, which Rosy had made whilst romping, how familiar, yet how strange it was to her! She had always been fond of gay colours and smart dresses; and now she had her own clothes again, she felt quite a different woman from the dull, broken-spirited prisoner she had been only yesterday. There was no glass in which she could look at herself; she had not seen her own face all this long and dreary time, except in little fragments of broken glass in which she could hardly see the faintest image of herself. But she felt as young, now she had her blue gown on, as when she had first crossed the gloomy threshold of the county jail.

There were a few necessary forms to go through, and the governor of the jail addressed some words of friendly counsel to her, before the prison gates were opened; but she scarcely heard what he said, for there was a singing in her ears, and her heart was beating painfully. There was a small sum of good-conduct money for her, which she had earned since the chaplain had come; arid to it was added a sovereign, which had been sent to her as a legacy by her dying friend. It was~ enough to meet her immediate wants. She took the money mechanically, forgetting to utter any thanks. It seemed so long before she could get outside the strong, thick walls! But at length all was over. The great gate swung on its hinges to let her out; and in the chill, keen air of a December morning she stood outside the jail, free once more.

Just at first Rachel felt giddy and faint. She had not been able to swallow a morsel of her breakfast; and the frosty air seemed to smite her back against the high walls that surrounded the jail. There was no one about to stare at her. The gloomy place stood a little way from the town, upon the high banks' of a river, which was flowing sluggishly along its course, -under a thin costing of ice. For miles away a level plain of fields and meadows, hedgerows and woods, glistening with snow, stretched up to the dim-coloured sky. It was going to be a hard, dry, frosty day, with a pale sunshine struggling through the gloom. Rachel's eyes were dazzled by the glare of the snow, as she gazed eagerly across the white plain in the direction where Aston lay. She knew the long way well enough. There were ten good miles to march before she could snatch up her little Rosy into her arms and hold her close, close to her breast, with the soft cheek pressing against hers and the tiny hands clinging round her neck. There had never passed a day in the jail, even in the dark cell, that she had not thought of the time when she should see her darling once more. What was the use of lingering under the prison walls? The sooner she started on her journey, the sooner her child would be her own again.

She shrank from passing through Thornbury, where she might, by chance, come across somebody who had known her when she used to come to the weekly market with her mistress's butter and eggs. So she went down a long flight of steps to the riverside, and followed its windings as long as its course led towards Aston. The narrow pathway was rough, yet slippery with ice; and she had been so long unaccustomed to walking, except round and round the dismal exercise-yard, with its smooth flags, that her feet soon grew weary. But she pressed on, though slowly, wondering how Rosy would look when she saw her mother again. Rachel did not think of any change in her. She could only recollect the rosy little "face, the small, dimpled hands, and curly golden hair of her child. She had been passionately fond of her baby; and the bitterest part of her punishment had been losing her. But it was all past now; and never again would she run any risk of being parted from her little girl. She was entering upon quite a new life.

But the road was very long and very rough. She was getting nearer, moreover, to a neighbourhood where anybody might know her; and whenever she could turn out of the high-road~ she chose the fields, where the uneven furrows, and the tufts of grass, frozen hard as iron, tripped up her weary feet at every step. She was hungry too, and the biting wind crept in under her thin summer jacket, chilling her to the heart. Yet her heart was glad in spite of all. She was free, and she was going to claim her child.

There was no spot where she could rest, even for a few minutes, under the frosty hedgerows; but when she was about three miles from Aston she saw a woman unlocking her cottage door, and she asked leave humbly to sit down by her fireside for a little while. It was a clean and cosy house-place, and Rachel looked round it with longing eyes. If she had but a home like this to take her Rosy to, how happy and how good she would be!

"Are you bound on a long journey?" asked the woman, as she stirred up the embers of a low fire.

"Only as far as Aston," answered Rachel, "but I've been on my feet all morning and I'm not used to it of late, and it's worn me out. I've walked from Thornbury, and I don't believe I could have gone all the way without resting a bit, and thank you kindly."

"Ay, rest is sweet," said the stranger; "have you friends at Aston?"

"Only my little girl," replied Rachel, her face flushing with gladness, "but she's such a little love! Like that picture of the angel there hanging by your clock. I've not seen her for years and years."

"Not seen your own little girl for years!" repeated the woman in amazement. "Why, how comes that about?"

"Oh! I've been away," she said, "and it's a hard thing for a mother to be parted from her child all that while, isn't it?"

"It's a long while," said the woman suspiciously.

"It'll never happen so no more," said Rachel, in an eager voice, "never, never again. It were my husband's fault mostly. Men are so; they don't care for their children like we do. He never gave a thought to what would become of Rosy."

"Is she living in the House?" asked the woman.

Rachel nodded reluctantly. She could not bear to think of her little girl having been all this time in the workhouse. It had been her deepest trouble in the jail; and now she only answered the stranger's question with a silent nod. The woman spoke more coldly when she spoke again.

"I'm thinking you'd best be on the road again," she said, after a pause; "my old man may come in any minute now, and it angers him to catch strangers about the place."

"Oh! Ill go, and thank you kindly," answered Rachel, rising weariedly from the warm corner of the fireplace. The woman followed her down the garden-path, and locked the little wicket after her. Rachel's heart sank for a few minutes; but every step was bringing her nearer to Aston, and before the cottage was lost to sight she had forgotten everything but that she should soon see Rosy.

It was growing dusk before Rachel reached the end of her day's journey; for when she inquired in Aston for the workhouse, she found that it was nearly a mile farther on. It was only a branch from a neighbouring Union, and was built on purpose for the reception of pauper children. There was no casual ward in it. Tramps who applied there for a night's shelter were bidden to march on another four miles to the larger workhouse, to which this one belonged.

At last Rachel stood beside a door in a high wall, which was pointed out to her as the entrance to the place; but she hesitated now, and trembled to ring the bell. All day long she had been alone, except for the little while when she had been resting in the cottage by the way; but the hour had come when she must not only face her fellow-creatures, but must let them know who she was and where she came from. Her long, solitary imprisonment---for the greater part of her life in jail had been solitary---had made her shy of seeing new faces and of speaking to strange people. Yet there was no escape for her. If she was to see Rosy and claim her, she must say that she was her mother, and she must produce proof of it. More than once during the day she had unfolded the chaplain's letter and spelt out the words in it, and now in the dim light she looked at it once more to give her courage. Thou God seest me!" she said, as, with a shaking hand, she pulled the handle of the belt, and heard it clanging loudly somewhere out of sight.

The door was flung open quickly enough by a boy in the workhouse dress. Rachel could see over his head into a large square court, white with frozen snow, where a crowd of girls and little boys were playing together, or cowering under the shelter of a wall, shivering with the cold. Her eyes ran eagerly about the groups; but she could see no child like her Rosy. Suppose she should be ill, or perhaps dead!

This last dread struck her dumb. "Dead!" She had never thought of that. There were so many sicknesses which kill young children, and her child had had no mother to watch her and nurse her through them. Yes. Very probably Rosy had died in some illness, with no one to care for her, with only a pauper nurse to be hard and cruel to her, and not one to drop a single tear upon her lifeless little face! She fancied she could see her, nailed down in the rough coffin provided for pauper children, and carried off carelessly to be buried away out of sight, like something not worth thinking of.

"Come, now then, what is it you're after?" asked the boy, holding the door fast in his hand, as though to prevent her going in.

"I want to see the master," she said, in a choking voice.

"Can't," he answered, "it's New Year's Eve, and it's our treat to-night. They're smartening up the school as fine as fivepence, for there's lots of grand folks coming. That's why we're all turned out, though it's so precious cold. But there'll be cake for tea, and oranges after."

"But I must see the master," urged Rachel; "there's a little girl of mine here, or ought to be, and I've walked ten miles and more from Thornbury. I must speak to the master for one minute---only one minute."

"No good trying," he answered, "he'd say nothin' save box my ears; only they've got some ladies helpin' to do the room, and he'd be afeard of showin' his teeth afore them. I'd go for a penny."

"Do you know if there's a little girl called Rosy Trevor here?" she asked tremulously; "a very pretty little girl? I can't see her anywhere about."

Oh! I don't know the little girls' names," he said, "and it's against rules to let them speak to anybody, without the master, or somebody, being by. They're afeard of 'em tellin' tales out of school, I reckon."

"Is this a bad place for little girls?" she asked, in great anxiety.

"Oh, no; not so bad," he answered; "they give us enough to eat, and they don't thrash us for nothink. They never do thrash the little girls, you know; only box their ears soundly, like their mothers 'ud do at home. And we've treats twice a year. It's our winter treat to-day. If you'll give me a penny, I'll go to the master; and-what are I to tell him, suppose he'll hearken to me?"

"Tell him Rachel Trevor has walked all the way from Thornbury," she said, "to see her little girl, Rosy, and take her out of the House. I'm dead tired and worn out, and I don't know wherever I can go for the night, if he won't take me in here."

"They never takes folks in here," answered the boy, shutting the door in her face, and bolting it inside. She leaned against the door-post, waiting and listening for his return. Deeper and deeper fell the shadows of the night; and the air grew keener and sharper with the frost. It was quite dark before she heard the children trooping into the house in answer to a bell that tinkled and jangled sharply. The little ones must be almost frozen to death, she thought, as she stretched her own benumbed limbs. But what was she to do? She could not stay outside the door all night; yet she could not go away unsatisfied. She must know, at least, if her Rosy was still alive.

Her ring was answered by a woman this time, who listened patiently, and bade her follow her to the kitchen. There was a great stir and bustle going on. Fires were blazing, and huge cans of sweetened tea were being carried across the playground into the schoolroom beyond,.with piled-up baskets of cake following them. The sudden heat, and light, and noise smote upon Rachel painfully. She sank down on the floor, with a strange, shrill, passionate cry, and rocked herself to and fro, as if to keep down the wild fears and frenzy which threatened to be too strong for her. The women crowded around her, but her sobs hindered her from speaking to them for a minute or two.

"Is my little girl here?" she cried; at length; "oh! I'm afeard she's dead; dead and buried! Ask somebody if Rosy Trevor's here!"

"Give her a drop of tea to drink, poor thing," said one of the women; "why! she's all but froze! There dear, you drink a drop, and I'll run to the master, and ask him for Rosy Trevor; that's her name, is it? I'm almost a stranger here, or I'd tell you at wunst, poor, lost dear!"

Rachel felt dazed and light-headed; everything swam giddily before her eyes. She drank a cup of tea thirstily, but she could not swallow any food. It seemed an age before the master came in, though he had sent word by the woman that he would come in and speak to her for a minute. At last he came into the kitchen hurriedly.

"Now then, where's the woman?" he asked. "Oh! there you are! what's your business with me?"

"Please, sir," cried Rachel, falteringly, "is my little girl, Rosy Trevor, dead?"

"Dead! no," he answered; "Trevor's all right; what do you want with her?"

I'm her mother, and I've come to take her away," she said.

"So! you are Rachel Trevor!" he exclaimed, speaking in slower tones, and looking more closely at her, "and you've just served your time out in Thornbury jail for the housebreaking at the Hall?"

"Yes, sir," said Rachel, with downcast head. She had caught a quick movement among the women in the kitchen, and knew they had all turned to stare at her.

"Your husband's in jail still," said the master, in a half whisper, but, in the sudden and deep silence that prevailed, his words could be heard distinctly. "I don't know that you've any right to claim your child. I daren't let you have her on my own responsibility. I must apply to the guardians, and you must come again, say in a week's time."

"Oh, sir," cried Rachel, "only let me see her tonight!"

He hesitated for a minute; but there did not seem to be any risk in letting her merely see the child, in the presence of so many witnesses. Shrill voices singing a hymn rang across the playground, giving notice that tea was over. He hurried away, promising to send the girl, on condition that her mother would take herself off quietly, as soon as she had seen and spoken to her. Rachel forgot all about her, as she gazed out into the darkness, through the open door by which Rosy was to come in. She saw the schoolroom door open and close again; and heard a child's step coming slowly, very slowly and lingeringly, across the yard. She tried to speak, to call "Rosy!" but her voice failed her. Why could she not call Rosy, as she used to do, when the little curly head and laughing face were hiding away from her, in the old times?

But it was not Rosy who crept in timidly out of the darkness! It was no merry laughing little darling. This thin, long-armed girl of seven, with short clipped hair, and dull, pale face! Where was her little love, full of fun and frolic, and pretty as the roses, after which she was named? This frightened-looking child had her face half hidden by an ugly green shade over her eyes, and she crept about carefully like one nearly blind. It could not be Rosy; they were trying to put off some other woman's girl upon her. Rachel trembled with disappointment, mingled with a vague dread.

"Who are you?" she asked, sharply.

"Trevor," answered the child, in a sulky voice; "the master said my mother was in the kitchen, and I must come to her."

"No, no; not Rosy, not my little Rosy!" cried Rachel, with a strange yearning to catch the poor half-blind child in her arms; yet fighting against the thought that she had found her lost darling in a creature so unsightly and so sad. The little girl stood apart from her, peeping at her from under the green shade.

"Yes, I'm Rosy Trevor," she said; "is it true you're my mother; quite true?"

"If you're Rosy," she sobbed, falling on her knees before the child, "I'm your mother. Don't you know me? If you're my Rosy, come close to me, and kiss me."

"No," she answered, pushing away Rachel's hands, "if you're my mother, teacher says you're a wicked, wicked woman; and I want to go back to the treat."

She freed herself from Rachel's grasp, and ran away more quickly than she had come in, as if she were afraid of being kept against her will. But Rachel neither followed her nor called her back. A blow had struck her to the very heart. Rosy had not died as she had feared, uncared for, and unwept; but she had lost her merry, pretty little darling; lost her even more than if she could have gone to her little grave, and mourned bitterly over it. Rosy had been taught to hate her, to shrink from her as a wicked woman! She hardly dared to lift up her head, and face the glances of the women, who had seen and heard all that had passed; who had listened to her own child calling her wicked. It was true enough; she was willing to own that humbly; but it was very hard to hear it from the lips of her own little girl.

"I promised the master I'd go as soon as I'd seen Rosy," she said, rising up from her knees, and turning to the door without looking round. The woman who had spoken kindly to her before followed her, and thrust a large piece of cake into her hand.

"There, poor creature!" she said, softly, "maybe you're a wicked woman; but you've got a mother's heart, and God knows how you was tempted. Eat that as you go along, my dear."

With heart bowed down, and with slow and weary footsteps, Rachel passed out into the snowy lane. It had been dark for an hour or more, and the sky overhead was black and starless; still, the glimmer of the snow gave her light enough to see her way. She did not dare to ask the favour of a shelter in the workhouse for the night; and four miles of lonely road lay before her, before she could find a resting-place. Yet, if her heart had been light, she could have walked along the frost-bound lanes bravely, buoyed up by the thought of soon having her child as her own again. But now her broken and saddened spirit made every step she trode a weariness and pain to her.

By the time she had crept a mile or so upon her way, a waggon overtook her, going towards the town. The waggoner wished her a good New Year as he came up to her, and with a sorrowful voice she asked him if he could not give her a lift in his waggon.

"Thee'rt sick, I reckon," he said, as the low, pained tones struck upon even his dull ear.

"Ay! sick at heart," said Rachel; "I'd as lief lie down i' the snow, and die, as go on to yonder town. There's no good New Year for me; never no more."

"That's bad," he answered; "but there's no long lane without ne'er a turning. Patience! Thee'll come to a turning by-and-by, I'll be bound. There! Get thee up in the waggon, and lie thee down on the straw. We'll be more than an hour yet; the snow clogs us so."

Rachel fell into a feverish sleep before many minutes had passed, and saw and felt no more till the waggoner called her at the first lamp-post in the town, to ask where she meant to go. She awoke shivering, and wondering where she could be. Not in her little cell, which had been her home so long. She almost wished herself back in it.

"Can you tell me to a lodging?" she asked, after she had climbed down from the waggon, and stood desolately in the light of the lamp."

"Well!" he said gruffly, "I'm slow of thinking, but I've thought maybe you're the woman they told me of in Aston; a ticket-of-leave woman, fresh out of Thornbury jail. If I'd thought, I'd have left thee to tramp thy tramp by thyself. If thee'rt a honest woman, I know a place for thee; but if thee'rt naught else save a jail-bird there's places for such as thee, but I know naught about them So tell the truth; which woman art thee?

It was a hard question for Rachel. It seemed easy enough to declare herself an honest woman, and deceive the simple and kindly countryman. She was ready to tell the lie; the words were upon her lips, when the recollection of her friend's letter, which she carried for safety in the bosom of her gown, came sharply across her mind. If God saw her, how could she speak that falsehood?

"I'm that poor, bad woman," she said almost in a whisper.

"Then thee must go thy own road," answered the waggoner, "and I must go mine. My wife's an honest woman, thank God!"

Rachel watched the waggon lumbering heavily down the street. A gleam of comfort came to her as she thought that God would be pleased, and maybe the chaplain would know what she had done; but it soon passed away in the difficulty of finding a lodging. There seemed to be no room for her in any decent place; and at last she was forced to pass the night in a low lodging-house, where a rough and riotous crew were keeping New Year's Eve. She cried herself to sleep as the bells were ringing the old year out and the new year in. Not the worst day in the jail had been so full of pain and misery as this first day of her freedom.

To claim Rosy, and get away from this neighbourhood, where her crime was known, was the first thing to do. But where was she to go? and how was she to earn an honest living for them both? Honest she must be; that she was bent upon. No fresh crime of hers should part her again from her child. Even Rosy's hard words to her strengthened her in her resolution. She should never be taunted again with having a wicked woman for her mother. Rosy should see how good, and industrious, and honest she would be. Before her marriage, so long as she kept herself steady and trustworthy, she had been a most valuable servant; and she was longing to prove herself steady and trustworthy again. If only she might meet with somebody who would give her a chance!

The first week of the New Year was not ended, when Rachel received her little girl from the master of the workhouse, who cautioned her to take good care to keep her off the parish for the future. Rosy had been crying bitterly, and was sobbing still, when Rachel took her by the hand, and walked with her down the village street. The women and children in the cottages looked out after her, with loudly-spoken remarks; for the robbery at the Hall had been the favourite subject of talk ever since it had been committed. Rosy hung back, and dragged heavily on her hand, hindering her from passing swiftly, as she would have done, out of sight. It was a cruel, bitter grief to her. Rachel's face grew white and miserable as she dragged Rosy's reluctant feet along towards the deserted lanes. Could it be true that God saw it all; these sneering, mocking women, who were shouting after her, and this reluctant crying child who would escape from her if she could? He knew how she wanted to be good. If He loved her, if only He saw her in her trouble, would He not help her?

She felt calmer when at last they reached the lanes, where there was no one to stare at them and revile her. She sat down on a stone by the wayside, and took Rosy on her lap. It was the first time she had held her in her arms, pressing her closer and closer to her breast, since she was a little laughing baby, hardly old enough to call her mother. How often in prison she had dreamed of nursing her, and fondling her, and wept bitter tears when she awoke to find it only a dream! Rosy shrank from her at first; but the kisses that were pressed upon her lips and cheeks were so different from the harsh and cruel treatment she had been dreading, that after a minute or two she resisted no longer. By-and-by even she returned her mother's kisses, whilst a faint smile stole over her dull face.

"Are you a very wicked woman?" she asked doubtfully; "they told me you'd beat me, and take away my new clothes."

"No, no, my darling," sobbed Rachel, "I'd die for you. I've been a wicked woman once, but I'm going to try to be good now, and you'll help me, Rosy. I couldn't ever be bad to you. You'll always live with me, and I'll never take to bad ways again. The chaplain says he loves me, and Christ loves me, and God loves me. Rosy, won't you love me too, a little bit at first, till you know how good I'll be?"

"I'll love you if you're good to me," said Rosy. "Teacher used to say I was a good girl for such a father and mother as I've got. They told me you were a jail-bird; are you, mother?"

"They were wicked to tell you so," said Rachel; "they ought not to have told you where I've been. But we'll try to forget it, Rosy. We are going somewhere where nobody will know us, and we'll not talk about it ever again. You'll soon love me a great deal, I know."

"Where are you going to take me to?" she asked, shivering. The snow and frost were not gone yet, and the child's thin bare arms, with no other covering than the grey workhouse cloak, were blue with cold, and her eyes, almost hidden by the green shade. were inflamed with crying and by the keen biting wind that whistled through the leafless branches of the tree beneath which they sat. "Where are you going to take me to?" she cried again; "it's colder here than at school."

Rachel had no answer ready. There was no home waiting to welcome her and her little girl. She thought of all the bright firesides in the cottages they had passed, but there was not one where she could sit for a few minutes only, and get rid of this chill which was making her teeth chatter and her flesh creep. Rosy's last home had been the workhouse, and hers the jail. She did not even know in what direction to wander, every way was the same to her.

She was about to rouse herself and pursue her aimless journeyings, not knowing whither to go, when the sound of wheels coming carefully and slowly along the frost-bound road fell upon her ear. The lane was a very lonely one, and no conveyance had passed along it since the last snow had fallen, two nights before. Rachel turned her head and watched with listless and forlorn curiosity to see what it was that was coming towards them.

It was a large old-fashioned chaise, with a hood covering the seat and half concealing the driver; but Rachel knew it, and knew who was driving it, the instant it came in sight. She would have willingly walked miles out of her way to escape meeting it. But there was no escape; the high hedges on either side forbade any attempt to force a way through them, and the carriage must overtake her in a minute or two, however quickly she walked on. She turned her back towards it and bent her face over Rosy, but as the wheels moved slowly over the crackling road she heard them coming to a standstill opposite to her.

"Why! Rachel Trevor!" exclaimed a quick, agitated voice.

Rachel dropped her head till her face was quite hidden upon her child's shoulder, as she listened for the carriage wheels to move on more quickly than before; but there was no sound for a minute or two, except the impatient pawing of the horse's hoof on the hard ground.

"I thought," said the voice again, "that you were some poor woman who would be glad of a lift this bitter day. Where are you going, Rachel?"

"Oh, I don't know," she cried bitterly, "I don't know where me and Rosy can go. There's no place for us as I can think of."

"I'm going to the station," said the lady, who was driving in the chaise alone; "get up beside me, and let us talk about it as we go along."

"Not me, ma'am," cried Rachel, "not me!"

"Yes, you," she answered; "here, lift your child up to me quickly, and get in yourself. I did not know your time was up, Rachel."

"Oh! I can't take your kindness," murmured Rachel, "when I've robbed you and wronged you---"

"Ought you to take God's kindness then?" asked the lady; "you sinned against Him more than against my husband and me. Come! your little girl will perish with cold."

Almost against her will, Rachel carried Rosy to the chaise and lifted her up to the lady, who wrapped a thick shawl about her and put her into her mother's lap as soon as she was seated. Rachel's eyes were filled with tears; but she dared not open her lips. The last time she had seen her former mistress was when she had borne witness against her on her trial, and completely broken down her plea of "Not Guilty." But for her clear evidence she might have escaped from the consequences of her sin. She had appeared to be a pitiless enemy to her; but there was no enmity in the grave, thoughtful face beside her now.

"Your husband was transported," said Mrs. Curtis, after a long silence, "and cannot return for another three or four years, if he ever comes back. How do you intend to earn a living?"

"I can work," she answered in a tremulous voice, "and I'm willing to do anything."

"Ah! but you have no character," said her mistress. "I have been thinking of you often since your chaplain wrote to me and said he had great hopes of you. You told him you believed in our Lord Jesus Christ. Do you, Rachel?"

"I haven't got any book-learning," said Rachel anxiously, "but I believe God gave us His dear Son to save us from our sins, and He's longing for us to love Him and to be good, and never sin, never no more. I don't know much about Jesus Christ, ma'am; where He used to live, nor what He said, nor the things He did, because I can't read quite perfect yet; but the chaplain said He loved me so that He'd died for me; and I'd like to do something back again, however hard it is, for love's sake."

Rachel had found it difficult to speak for the trembling in her voice, and she pressed Rosy closer to her to give her courage. She wished her mistress to know that she was not the same hardened, unprincipled woman she had been before her imprisonment; and yet she was afraid of saying more than she ought to say about the Lord and Saviour, whose name she felt unworthy to utter. Mrs. Curtis looked at her pale, sad face in silent surprise. Could this be indeed the wild, giddy, and ungrateful girl, who had taken advantage of her former position as her servant to lead a band of burglars into her house?

"Rachel," she said at last, "if you truly believe in Christ, you will show it in your future life. You'll find plenty to do to show your love for Him. I know a lady in London who takes strong and active women of good character out of England to countries where they can get their living easily. I will write to her, telling everything, and ask if she can help you in any way. If she will take you, I will try to pay your passage out, with your little girl. You had better go at once; this very day. I will drive you to the station, and in four hours you will be in London. My husband would not approve of my taking you home, or even of my helping you in this way; for he will never recover the shock of that night, and he cannot forgive you. You must not even write to me, for it would excite and distress him. Rachel, you know how feeble in health he was before that night, and he will never again be as well as he was then."

"I never thought of it," cried Rachel; "they were always telling me how clever I was, and when I said how easy it "ud be to get into the Hall, they snapped at it. I hope I shan't see any of them in London. They came from London mostly, and I'm almost frightened of going there."

"It will only be for a day or two probably," answered Mrs. Curtis. "Miss Murray will see to it. I will write to her at my bookseller's in the town, whilst you and the child go on to the station. I do not wish any one to see you with me, lest my poor husband should get to hear what I have done."

"I wish I could ask him to forgive me," said Rachel sorrowfully; "he was very kind to me when I waited on him. I didn't think what I was doing."

Now she looked at her mistress she could see how much older and sadder she seemed than in former times, and how white her hair had grown: Deep lines of care and anxiety were graved on her face, and her eyes were sunken as if with much watching and many tears She could not bear to think that she had been the cause of this trouble.

"We have never known a night's rest since," said Mrs. Curtis, as if she had seen Rachel's thoughts, and wished to deepen her regret and penitence. "Many, many times, at the least sound, I am compelled, for his sake to go round the house and see that all is safe. Sometimes I fear he will lose his reason. No, Rachel, you did not know what you were doing, or even you and your comrades would have had pity on us. But I forgive you, and, please God! my poor husband will be brought to forgive you by-and-by. You must make up for it by being good now."

"Be good!" Those were the very words the chaplain's letter ended with. Now her mistress said the same. If she could only do something to make up for her bad life, and the sorrow she had caused in the world, she would be ready to die. Rosy should grow up a good girl, at any rate; she should learn about God, and Jesus, and heaven, from any one who could teach her. For Rosy's sake, she herself would never fall into sin again. When Mrs. Curtis put them. down from the carriage at the entrance to the town, Rachel walked through the streets with a firm, steady tread, as if every step she took towards the station brought her nearer to that new and better life which lay before her in London. By-and-by Mrs. Curtis came down to the station after them, with the letter she had written to Miss Murray. There was only time enough for them to get some food in the refreshment-room, and then the train came in which was to carry them away from their friend. Rachel's heart beat fast with hope, and sorrow, and gratitude. She could only grasp the hand of her mistress between both her own, and stooping down hurriedly, pressed her lips upon it.

"Good-bye, Rachel," said Mrs. Curtis; "remember to be good!" The train started, and Rachel leaned out of the window to catch a last glimpse of her grave, gentle face. Yes, she would remember. Nothing could ever make her forget her sin, and its bitter harvest to herself and others. What had any one gained by their crime? Her husband was still a prisoner; she had suffered a long penalty; Rosy had lost her happy childhood in a workhouse. Now she saw what misery she had brought upon her kind mistress, and the master who had never injured her. As for herself, there was a black blot upon her life, which no tears could ever wash away. Even her child knew that her mother had been a wicked woman, and must remember it against her till her dying day. How could she ever forget? Would anybody forget? Would God Himself forget her sins?

Yet how good the chaplain and Mrs. Curtis had been to her, though they had known all about her wickedness, even though her mistress was suffering constantly because of it! If she could forgive her, was it not sure that God would forgive her? Her mistress had seemed to feel gladness in forgiving her, and a smile had shone out on her face when she had waved her hand to Rachel at the last moment. Surely God would not be angry with her all her life. She recollected hearing a verse out of the Bible, "He will not keep His anger for ever." She could believe it now Mrs. Curtis had plainly forgiven her, and befriended her, in spite of all. Rosy was on her lap, sheltered warmly in the shawl which had been wrapped round her by her mistress, and asleep with her head on her mother's bosom. The new life had begun, and it seemed to Rachel that it would be easy to be good.

The short day was ended when Rachel, with her tired child, reached London. It was the first day Rosy could recollect spending outside the workhouse, and its square walled-in playground. She was bewildered and fretful, and her old childish dread of the wicked woman who called herself her mother came back, when she found herself alone with her in a strange place. She cried bitterly for the only home she had ever known, till Rachel did not know what to do with her. If she had been a baby still, she could have cradled her in her arms, and carried her gently through the crowded and bustling streets, where the passers-by were constantly jostling against them. Rosy pattered along the pavement beside her, through the slush of the melted snow, making her heart ache with her quiet wretchedness. She spoke cheerily and tenderly to her, but Rosy did not answer, or only answered by a sob.

Still, this cold, comfortless tramp along the slushy causeways would not last long. One of the porters at the station had read the address of the letter she carried for Miss Murray, and told her how to find the place in a street not very far away. Now and then she ventured to stop some poor person like herself to ask if she was in the right direction, and everybody told her it was close at hand. Yet it seemed a long while before she found it. But it was reached at last, and Rachel saw a small boot and shoe shop, with a narrow frontage of building rising five or six storeys above, and appearing to be squeezed in between two larger houses of business. It did not look a very important place, and Rachel entered it more confidently. There was a young woman behind the counter, and a customer turning over some ready-made shoes. The assistant glanced at the name on the letter, and tossed it back to Rachel.

"Gone away from here," she said, carelessly; "left five months ago. I think she went off to Australia, or somewhere else, with a batch of servant-girls. Anyhow, she's gone, and I don't know anything about-her."

Rachel stood dumb for a minute. No difficulty about finding Miss Murray had crossed her mind, so fully had she depended upon Mrs. Curtis's letter smoothing every trouble of that kind out of her way. But here was a serious perplexity. She did not know a soul in London; she had not any idea where she could find a shelter for the night, and, like many country people, vague fears possessed her about untold dangers which awaited strangers. Lingering till the customers were gone, she spoke again to the girl behind the counter.

"Is there anybody that 'ud be likely to know?" she asked, nervously. "I'm just come from the country, and my old mistress gave me this letter for Miss Murray to find me a place at once, where me and my little girl could sleep to-night. Maybe somebody in the house could tell me where to look for her."

"Oh, dear, no!" answered the assistant, "she only had her office here; she lived out somewhere in the country, I think. They're all strangers in the house now, and we know nothing about her. We've had no end of bother with servant-girls coming after her. There's lots of lodging-houses everywhere, if you only keep your eyes open; or you can ask a policeman to tell you where to find one. It's quite easy. There! Good-night."

Rachel felt that she must go, though her heart sank at leaving the only spot in London where she seemed to have some right to be. Rosy was beginning to cry again, and her first pressing care was to find as quickly as possible some decent lodging, if she only knew where to look for it. Mrs. Curtis had given her some money, and the sovereign the chaplain had sent for her remained unchanged; there was no immediate anxiety about means. Her dress, too, and that of her child, was tidy enough for poor people. But she hesitated a long while before she could make up her mind to ask a policeman, feeling half afraid that in some way he would know that she had been in jail. Yet when she ventured to stop one, he answered her so mildly, and gave her such careful directions where to go, that she was quite reassured. Right thankful she was when she could undress Rosy, for the first time for so many years, and lay her softly down in bed, where her sobbing was soon lost in sleep. Though she could not fall asleep herself, until she had been lying awake for hours, pondering over the sore strait she was in, she felt a strange happiness in listening to Rosy's regular breathing, and in feeling her lying, soft and warm, in her arms.

"Do you know anywhere I could look for work?" asked Rachel the next morning of the woman who kept the lodging-house. All the other lodgers had gone, and it was plain that Rachel and Rosy were not expected to stay during the daytime.

"Work!" repeated the woman, "there's a great want of work in London. Folks crowd in so in the winter, and they're all crying out for work. I'm a summer waistcoat stitcher myself; I haven't had a day's sewing since September. What sort of work do you want?

"Anything," answered Rachel, "sewing, or cleaning, or washing; anything. I've been a house servant, and there isn't an idle bone in my body. My mistress "ud say that much for me."

"And you've got a character?" she asked; "these letters are your character, maybe?"

Rachel held both letters in her hand---the chaplain's and the one for Miss Murray. But neither of these would secure her work; her sad story was too plainly told in them. She put them hastily out of sight into her pocket.

"No; those aren't my characters," she answered; must I have one before I can get work?"

"Not much chance without, and not much better chance with," said the woman.

"I'll go and try," said Rachel, "if you'll let me leave Rosy with your children. I can but write to my mistress in a day or two, and I've plenty of money for a while."

"Oh! ay! you may leave your little girl," said the woman, civilly, "and you'll want your bed again to-night?"

"To be sure," she answered. She could hardly bear to let Rosy be out of her sight, especially in this strange, busy place; yet she could not take her to tramp about the cold streets. The search for work might be a long and toilsome one. She was ready for work of any kind. She was strong and industrious; her appearance was pleasant, and her yoke and manner were gentle. There was nothing to prevent her taking a place as a valuable servant; nothing except the dark past, and Rosy.

But when she found herself in the streets she felt bewildered and confused. Now Rosy was not with her, demanding her constant thought and care, she was stunned by the noise and dazed by the myriads of people passing and repassing. She did not know where to turn or how to set about seeking for employment. Now and then she ventured to speak to some ill-clad, broken-down woman of middle age, whose face bore the traces of hard work and patient struggling with poverty, and in her soft country voice Rachel asked each of them where she could find something to do, and how they managed to earn a living. But there was little information and less comfort to be gathered from what they told her. Times were bad and work was very scarce for women, except domestic service, and that was not open to Rachel.

"Die rather than fall into sin!" These words seemed to ring in her ears, through all the din and noise of the city streets. She repeated them to herself mechanically almost without knowing what she was saying. To her ears the church bells seemed to chime them, and the hoofs of the horses passing by echoed them---"Die rather than fall into sin!" There was sin enough in the city, but there did not appear to be any work for her.

It was some days before Rachel could determine to write to her mistress, for Mrs. Curtis had told her distinctly not to write to her, lest the letter should excite and anger her husband. But at length her hopelessness grew too heavy for her. to bear, and she resolved to venture upon making known her difficulties. She could write but slowly, for she had not had much practice in jail, and then it had been chiefly in copying hymns and texts on her slate. But after a long effort she wrote the following letter---

Poor Rachel! She wrapped up her letter, and directed it very carefully, and dropped it into the post-office with an anxious yet hopeful heart. But she had never thought of putting in the address of the lodging-house where she was staying. This was the first letter she had ever written, and her mind was so full of the trouble she was writing about that she forgot the most important thing after all. Mrs. Curtis received it safely; but there was no chance of answering it, and with warm, pitying tears shed upon it, she was obliged to lock it away out of sight, and through the wintry nights and bleak days of spring she often wondered what had become of Rachel and her child.

What had become of her? Day after day passed by while she looked for a letter from her old mistress, and very slowly died away the hope of having one. Her small store of money dwindled, though she laid it out most jealously and never satisfied her own hunger, in the dread of soon not being able to satisfy Rosy's. At last they were obliged to quit their lodgings, and drifted down to casual wards and night refuges, where there was nothing to pay, but where they could only find shelter for the night. All day long they loitered about the streets, hiding from the rain and sleet in the doorways of empty houses or under the arches of some bridge. They were not alone in their poverty, everywhere there were women and children as wretched as themselves, who would often share with them a crust of bread, or give them

information as to where they could secure a resting-place for the night. Rosy grew thinner, and the outfit she had brought away from the workhouse was already wearing into tatters, for there was no chance for Rachel to keep them clean and mended. Her eyes were certainly worse, from constant exposure to the winter's cold and from want of nourishing food. But she had grown fond of her mother, the poor, broken hearted mother, who was never weary of caressing her, and of shielding her as far as possible from suffering. She clung to Rachel, and in spite of cold, and hunger, and weariness, she cried bitterly if any word was spoken of her going back into the workhouse.

This was the dread that lay nearest to Rachel's heart. She could not let Rosy go. Yet, if she did not find regular work soon, they must apply for parish relief and go into the House and be parted. It was a thought of untold misery. Already her sin had cost her some years of her little girl's life; she had lost altogether her baby, with its golden curls and pretty laughing face, and now, if Rosy and she must be separated, who would see her growing up? who would be tender and gentle to her? who would teach her to be a better woman than she had been? When Rosy, in her childish voice, sang the hymns she had learned with her arms round her mother's neck, or knelt at her knee and said, "Our Father," Rachel felt that she could not be overcome by temptation. But if Rosy was gone, why, the poverty and the misery would grow too strong for her. There were so many open roads back into sin; there did not seem to be one leading to honesty and goodness.

Rachel was wrong; but she was wrong through ignorance. It was no wonder that she began to think it could not be true that God saw her. When Hagar was wandering in the wilderness, and the water was spent, and her child, lying under the shrubs, was dying of thirst, while she went and sat her down, a good way off, that she might not see him die, her heart was too heavy to remember that she had cried, "Thou God seest me," when she was alone in her trouble. The child's sufferings made her blind, and deaf and dead to all other things. It was when the angel of God called to her out of heaven, telling her that God Himself had heard the voice of the child crying under the shrubs, that her eyes were opened, and she saw a well of water close by. God had heard, not her cry, but the child's. Rachel, too, was blinded by Rosy's misery. If God would but hear Rosy's voice, then she would know for certain, "Thou God seest me."

She could not watch Rosy dying. They had been some weeks in London now, and a deep despair was settling down upon Rachel. She had seen the sunset, and the lamps lit one evening, late in February, and a thin chilly mist was creeping through every 9treet in the city. They had been singing along a quiet street, where there was no great rattle of wheels, but not a single person had glanced through door or window, nor had any passer-by dropped a penny into her hand, or Rosy's. The child was beginning to cough now, and could sing no more. They had reached the last depths of wretchedness, beyond which there could be nothing lower, unless she fell into sin. Where were they to go for the night? By this hour all the casual wards and refuges would be full; and, besides, Rachel felt that it was useless to go on any longer, starving and shivering all day, with but a slender hope of shelter at night. They had never yet passed a night out of doors, under the wintry sky; but she had talked with women who had, women whose children had crouched and cowered about their knees, vainly crying to be warmed and fed. She had no longer strength to bear up against her despair.

They wandered on slowly and aimlessly; Rachel hardly knowing that they were moving at all. Rosy's cold hand was in hers; a little, thin, icy hand, which could not be much colder if the child were dead. All the weakness, and the helplessness, and the wretchedness of her little daughter seemed to pass into herself, and was tenfold heavier to bear than her own misery. They might have been in a wilderness, with no man near them. There was no one who cared for them; no hand held out to them. All the voices that passed by spoke no word to them. There were firesides only within the houses, but there was no place for them anywhere. Thousands of homes were there; but they were homeless. Nothing belonged to them, except the darkness, and their hunger, and their weariness.

Rachel started up from these miserable, half-felt thoughts, and found that their feet had strayed on to one of the bridges which crossed the river. The mist hid the water from them; but it was there below, swift and dark. Only one step over, into the mist, and all her sufferings, and Rosy's, would be ended. Then she would neither be parted from her child nor yet see her die. They would be together~ locked fast in each other's arms. If God really saw them, He did not care. "Die rather than fall into sin," said the chaplain's letter. Well! she was going to die.

Yet she would like to nurse Rosy on her lap again for a few minutes, and feel her arms about her neck. She had missed it so whilst she was in jail. And Rosy must say "Our Father" once more, before she fell asleep for the last, last time. Oh! if it had but been true that God loved her! She did not want to die. It was the dread of dying slowly, and first seeing Rosy pining away, that was urging her on to end it all. There was no honest way of keeping in life; and there was no chance for her.

She had sat down in one of the recesses of the bridge, and taken Rosy on her lap. But just as the child, with folded hands, had begun to say "Our Father," a policeman came up and stood over them, tall and threatening.

"Come now," he said, "I've got my eye on you. You'll not try on any tricks here this night. We've had too much bother with young women like you these last few days. So just move on, will you? and I'll take care to see you off this bridge, I promise you."

Rachel rose up silently, and moved away, closely followed by the policeman, till she had crossed the river. A sullen recklessness had taken possession of her. They would neither let her live honestly nor die. Well, then, her husband and his comrades had always told her how clever she was, and how well her pleasant face and manner would help her to get a living. She was forced to go back to the old ways, and who could blame her?

They had turned down a street, with small houses on each side, some of them shops, and some evidently the homes of working people earning good wages. The mist was no thicker than earlier in the evening; but the chilling damp of it wrapped about them, as if it had been the cold flood of the dark river itself. There was not a person in sight; and only one or two had passed them since they turned into the street. All at once the pleasant scent of new bread fresh from the oven smote upon her craving hunger, and, at the same instant, Rosy clutched her hand convulsively, crying, "Look there, mother!"

A boy was passing them with a large basket on his arm, and he was opening the lid to break off morsels of the brown crisp crust to feast upon as he walked along. Her own gnawing hunger and Rosy's eager cry were too strong to be conquered. She snatched the basket out of the lad's grasp, and, holding her child's hand firmly in her own, set off to run as swiftly as she could drag her along, towards the corner of another street, which was not very far away.

But the boy set up so quick and shrill a cry, that, before she had run a dozen yards, she felt a man's strong grasp upon her arm, from which it was in vain to try to escape. Rachel stood as if she had been turned into stone. She knew that all was over now---all was lost. She could not open her parched lips to utter a word. There was no hope for her. The old-round of prison life would shut her in once more, under bolts and bar; and Rosy would be taken back again to her workhouse home. The boy was already beside her, and had snatched the stolen basket from her nerveless hands.

It's me, Sylvanus Croft, the chimney-sweeper," said the man who held her; "you know me, don't you, my lad?"

"Ay!" gasped the boy, "I know you, Mr. Croft. You hold her fast, while I run for a p'leece. There's one round the corner, and I'll find him in no time. My! if you hadn't a caught her, she'd have been off like a flash o' lightning, and mother 'ud have lost all her batch of bread."

"Wait a moment, my lad," said the sweep, "let's hear her speech first. She's lost her breath, and can't say a word for herself. Don't let us be too sharp; there's not much harm done yet. Folks are drove to it sometimes."

"Oh! don't you give me up to the police," whispered Rachel, earnestly. "They'll part Rosy and me again for years and years. I didn't want to steal again; I didn't, for certain. But it came on me so sudden, and Rosy and me we've tasted nothing since morning, not one morsel. I thought to drown myself and her in the river, and the police wouldn't let me. Ah! whatever shall I do? whatever shall I do?"

She wrung her hands and cried bitterly; whilst Rosy put her small cold hand into the sweep's, and spoke in her weak and childish voice.

"Mother's trying to be good," she said; "she's been a wicked woman once, but she's trying, oh so hard, to be good. But we've had nothing to eat all day, and we've nowhere to go to, and all our money is gone."

"Listen here, my lad," cried Sylvanus Croft; "they haven't had bite or sup since morning. I must look further into this, and if it's true, it 'ud be a shame to give 'em up to the police. I'll take 'em home with me, and lock 'em up safe for the present; and you give my duty to your mother, and the thief 'll be found safe and sound at my house, if she wants to persecute her."

Rachel did not attempt to resist, when Sylvanus Croft, keeping a firm yet gentle hold of her arm, led her away from the place where she had again fallen into sin. The terrible consequences of it had flashed across her mind at the first mention of the policeman, and she was shivering and trembling from mingled weakness and fear. Rosy ran by her side sobbing. Her little girl had seen her attempt to steal, and her vain flight; and now she saw her dragged along, not by a policeman, thank God! but by this stranger, who after all might perhaps give her up to justice.

Before long Sylvanus paused opposite a house of three storeys, on the first floor of which there were two windows, with white curtains drawn across them. The cheery flickering glow from a good fire burning within shed a bright gleam into the darkness, and, with the aid of the street lamp immediately below, lit up the whole front of the building. There were several large and boldly painted sign-boards displayed upon it, from the basement to the roof. "Sylvanus Croft, Chimney Cleaner to Her Majesty's Public Works." "Chimney Sweeper to the Society for the Suppression of Climbing Boys." "Smoky Chimneys Effectually Cured." "No Cure, No Pay." The master's eye lighted up with satisfaction as he glanced up and down his habitation. There was so much brightness and cleanliness and cheerfulness about it, that he could not keep himself from pointing it out to Rachel.

"That's my house," he said, "and that's mother's room, up there. She do love to be spruce and clean, more than most women, I think. Yet she married me, a master sweep. That was love, I say. She's bed-struck now; never stirred hand or foot since our little Sylvie was taken away from the evil to come. But I can't abear to let the outside get dingy, for fear she'd feel it; though, bless your heart, she'll never set eyes on it again. But you come along; you're my prisoner, and you mustn't give me the slip. Here! march in. I've unlocked the door."

Rachel stumbled weariedly over the door-sill into a dark passage; and Sylvanus followed, carefully locking the door behind him, and taking out the key, which he put safely into his pocket. He left them for a minute .or two in the darkness, and then he called them into a kitchen at the back, where he had already placed some food on a table.

"There, get something to eat," he said, "whilst I wash off some of my grime; it's colly rather than clean soot, and takes a deal of time, so you get a good meal while I'm at it. Then we'll go up to mother, and hear what she says."

He went away, but Rachel could not eat anything. Her hunger had passed into a sick faintness. But she gave Rosy some food, and held her closely whilst she was eating it with unsatisfied appetite. There was a low fire smouldering in the grate, and the steam rose from her worn-out boots as she put them near to its warmth. In a half dream she went through all her prison life again, with its unbroken sameness and its long, solitary hours, until she felt the old ungovernable longing to break out, to scream and cry aloud, and to dash the things about her into pieces. If it had not been for Rosy, and the fear she had of alarming her, she could not have kept herself still and quiet, sitting motionless before the fire, with her eyes watching the flicker of its flames.

After a long time, hours it seemed to her, Sylvanus Croft returned from the back kitchen, where all the while she had heard vaguely the sounds of washing and brushing. She looked up at his face eagerly, for he held her future in his hands. To her surprise, it was the face of a man just bordering upon old age. His hair was thin and grey, and there was a net-work of wrinkles about the corners of his eyes and mouth. There was hardly any trace of his employment about him, and he had put on a clean linen house-jacket, which he stroked down as he looked at Rachel smilingly.

"Mother can't abide to look at me in my business suit," he said; "she were of a higher birth than me, and it were a come-down to be my wife; but she well-nigh forgot that she married below her. But come! you haven't ate anything? How's that? Isn't there anything you like?"

"I want to know what you're going to do with me," she answered faintly; "I can't eat anything till I know that."

"Well, well! that's natural," he said, in a pitying tone; "but it quite rests with mother. If she says you're to be let go, you are let go; and vicy versy. So come along, you and your little maid."

He took Rosy by the hand, and trod softly and slowly up the staircase, while Rachel followed, scarcely breathing for the quick throbbing of her heart. The room Sylvanus entered startled, and almost frightened her, and she paused on the threshold, not venturing to take a step forward, lest her soiled and tattered clothes should sully anything they touched. It was a white room; the bed-hangings and counterpane, the window-curtains and the great dimity-covered easy-chair standing by the fire, were as spotlessly white as they could be in the smoke of London. Propped up with many pillows on the bed lay a small, slight woman, in whose face there was not a shade of colour, except in the dark, piercing eyes, which rested upon Rachel's miserable figure. She felt in an instant how lost and degraded she must appear to those eyes. Her blue gown had been drenched through and through again with the winter's snow and rain; and her bonnet had neither shape nor colour left, while the hair beneath it was tangled and rough. Rosy looked a little vagrant, dirty, and forlorn, and castaway.

"Oh!" cried Rachel, stretching out her hands beseechingly to the white, quiet face turned towards her, "I'm a wicked woman; but I meant to be good, I meant never to steal again, and if it hadn't been for Rosy---"

Her voice faltered and broke into sobs; and for a minute or two a deep silence fell upon them all, which seemed terrible to Rachel. She could hear nothing but the clock ticking on the mantelpiece; but at last the quick and eager tone of a woman's voice reached her ear.

"Bring her into the room, Sylvanus," said the voice, "and put her to sit down in my chair beside the fire, and make some tea quickly, and let us comfort her."

"No, no," cried Rachel, "not till I've told you what I am. I only came out of Thornbury jail the last day of the old year. I'd been servant at the Hall, and I knew all their ways, and let the men into the house. My husband was one of them, and he got ten years, and is gone to Gibraltar. I've never told Rosy all about it, not till now; she's such a little creature, and I'm her own mother. We've been tramping up and down London streets, and I tried to keep right, but nobody cared, and I'd spent all my money, and to-night I fell." Her words were lost again in bitter sobs; but Rosy's voice broke in, in their clear and childish tones,---

"Mother isn't a wicked woman now," she said; teacher told me she'd try to make me bad, but she never does. I say my hymns and prayers to her; and she tells me often that God sees us all the time."

"Oh! if I'd only remembered," sobbed Rachel, "God sees us all the time! But He seemed so far off and as if He didn't care. It's hard to believe He cares when everything goes against you. And we couldn't even die. But if you'll let us go---"

"Bring her in, Sylvanus," interrupted the eager, solemn voice that Rachel had heard before, "bring her in and set her in my chair, and make her welcome. Don't you see as we can be like the father that made merry and was glad, when his poor son came home ? Make some tea for her, Sylvanus, and put her close by the fire, and bring her little lass here to kiss me, quickly. Poor little lass! The same age as our Sylvie, old man."

Before she could speak again, or make any resistance, Rachel found herself seated in the white chair, and Rosy was carried quickly across the room, and laid beside the bedridden woman. The fire was stirred up, and a bright copper kettle placed carefully upon it, to keep its spout and handle from the smoke. Sylvanus Croft's mild, wrinkled face looked down kindly upon her whenever she lifted up her eyes; and she heard him calling Rosy by all kinds of pet names, as if he had known her all his life.

"Mother," he said, when Rachel had finished her tea, and the colour had come back to her cheeks and lips, and light into her eyes, "mother, there's no call for the police, is there?"

"No, Sylvanus, no," she answered.

"What's to be done with them, then?" he asked; "you've to decide everything, you know, mother; that's not in the way of my business. They are my prisoners, and I am bail for 'em. I sent word I'd keep 'em till morning, though there's no fear of 'em being asked for. There was dancing and singing in the father's house when the poor lad got home, and there'd be a bed got ready for him, as well as the rings on his fingers and the shoes on his feet. He wasn't turned out again when the feast was over."

"No, Sylvanus," said his wife; "there's our maid's chamber empty. Let them go there, and have a good night's sleep; and to-morrow we'll see what can be done."

The maid's chamber was a low little attic at the back of the house, with a window in its gable looking over a crowd of chimney-stacks and roofs of dwellings. There was not much furniture in it, and that was very poor; yet it had an air of humble comfort and cleanliness. It was altogether a different resting-place from any Rachel had slept in for years; and it brought back to her the happy days when she had been a girl, without trouble, and untouched by crime. She sank down on her knees beside the low bed, as soon as Rosy was lying peacefully upon it, to thank God; but she could find no words to say; only deep and heavy sobs of thankfulness told Him what she meant. Then she slept as she had never slept since she had been herself a child.

From a dreamless sleep Rachel was roused, early in the morning before day-break, by some person stirring about in he rooms below. She groped her way quietly downstairs, and found the old man kindling a fire, and getting ready his breakfast, before starting out into he dark and foggy streets.

"Up betimes, Rachel!" he said cheerily; "up with the lark, ay! and before the lark in the winter. I've lost my head-man that did the very early jobs for me, for I only wait myself on the nobility and the gentry commonly. But St. Gregory's flues want cleaning, and I must see to 'em myself, for it's a particular job. I was coming from there last night when I fell in with you. Eh! but you're a handy lass, my girl! I like to see a body as can move about brisk and sharp."

"I've been servant in two or three good places," she said, "and I'm handy at any housework. I can wash and iron, and bake, and clean with anybody. Only I've no character. If you and her could trust me."

A sudden hope had broken upon her that these kind folks, who had been so good to her and Rosy, might perhaps let her stay with them; at least for a time, as they were plainly in want of some one to do their housework and mind the poor woman upstairs.

"Trust you," repeated Sylvanus; "ay, ay! my girl, I'll trust you. Only you keep in your mind as God sees you, ay! and loves you always, though He mayn't be always showing it plain, and there'll be no fear of you going wrong. He isn't always nursing us, so to say, and kissing us, and making much of us, as you do with your little maid; and you'll have to leave that off soon, if she's to grow up a good serviceable woman. He sets us hard things to do, ay, and hard things to bear, till we're ready to cry out that He's a hard master; but all through it He's looking at us, and if you and me could only see His face, there'd be such a smile upon it when we were doing right, and such trouble if we were going wrong, that we couldn't go wrong anyhow. Didn't He give up His dear Son to come and tell us all about Himself? That was love. Ay! God is love."

"I never thought much of Him loving me," said Rachel softly.

"Well, well!" he answered, "that's how we ought to think of Him."

He was silent after that, being busy with his breakfast. It was ready in a few minutes, and he bade Rachel sit down with him, at the little round table on which it was laid. "My girl," he said, just before finishing, "maybe you might like to stay with us a bit? Well, do! it isn't a superior place, as you're used to; but when you've earned a character, so to say, I might speak for you at some of the grand houses I go to. Bless you! there's scores of the gentry know me, Sylvanus Croft; thousands and thousands of chimneys I've climbed in London,in old times; and seen the tops of 'em in all sorts of weather. There's no climbing-boys about here now, thank God; though they tell me there are down in Liverpool, and in country places. Eh! God sees some sad sights! But you think about it, my girl. Mother forgets how old Sylvie 'ud be, if she was alive now, but she'd be about your age, I guess, and a great comfort to me."

"I don't want to think," cried Rachel, earnestly. "I'd serve you and her on my hands and knees, if you'd only let me stay, and keep Rosy instead of wages. It shouldn't cost you much, I'd save so. And, oh! you'd teach us both to be good."

"Please God!" said the old man, nodding; "talk it over with mother while I'm away. I'm agreeable---more than agreeable. The little lass 'ud be like a playfellow for me, and I'm beginning to be fond of play again, like a child, only I've had no playfellows.

Well! I must be off, now, or St. Gregory 'll think I'm never coming to his flues."

Rachel could hardly believe that it was true, as she stole softly upstairs again to the attic, to see if Rosy was asleep. The little room seemed already to belong to her, to be her own home. The view from the window was charming to her, though it looked out only upon roofs and chimneys, and up to the open sky overhead. There was a small glass hanging against the wall reflecting her wistful face and rough, uncombed hair; but that should soon be smoothed again, she thought. Everything delighted her; and Rosy's face upon the pillow wore a look of peace and comfort, such as she had not seen upon it yet. Oh! if Rosy could only be safely sheltered and cared for! If they might but stay here, with these good people, there would be days of play and gladness for her little child, even if she herself were bowed down and saddened by the memory of her sins.

To dress Rosy, even in her ragged clothing, and to take her down to the quiet and warm little kitchen, where breakfast was ready for her, was such a joy as Rachel had never felt before, and hardly dared to think of now, lest it should prove but a mocking dream. To see the child's gladness, as she warmed her little feet before the fire, was a delight. The cold and hunger they suffered only yesterday seemed already a long time since. There was only their torn and soiled clothing to remind them of it, and Rosy, like a child, had no thought about that. She laughed aloud once or twice, and Rachel stood and listened with a sob. Could it be indeed that her merry little darling was coming back to her?

As the morning light strengthened she set ready a breakfast-tray, for the sick woman upstairs, as daintily and nicely as if it had been for Mrs. Curtis of the Hall. She earnestly desired to gain Mrs. Croft's favour. When she found that she was awake, she set the white, pleasant room in order, and waited upon her quietly and deftly, in a fashion that the paralytic woman had never seen before.

"You're a handy lass," she said, as Rachel was about to carry away the breakfast-tray, somewhat downcast at Mrs. Croft's silence.

"Yes," she answered eagerly; "and oh! if you would try me, and trust me, I'd serve you on my hands and knees. Only let me stay! You know the worst of me; I haven't kept back a thing; and you didn't turn me out of doors last night. It 'ud be almost like being in heaven for a night, and then turned out again! I'd do better for you than any other maid could do."

She stood beside the bed, trembling with anxiety, her eyes fastened upon the pale, worn face, and grey hair, and sunken eyes upon the pillow.

"Ay, stay!" said Mrs. Croft; "my old man is always fretting about me when he's away, and he's taken a fancy to you and your little girl. Stay, till we see how things go on. I'm very lonesome here at times, only for the thought of our dear Lord. He never leaves me, only I forget He's here, and fancy I'm alone, till it's as if He laid His hand upon me, and there comes a whisper in my heart that He hasn't gone away. Stop a minute, and I'll tell you how long I've been in this room."

She shut her eyes, as if to recall the long years, and count them as they went by, while Rachel stood looking down upon her, with tears standing in her eyes---tears that were more of gladness than sorrow.

"It's going on for eighteen years," she said; "Sylvie was a little bigger than your child, and I was proud of her, more than I can say; and I couldn't bear to think her father was a chimney-sweep. I'd come of better folks, and I'd been laundry-maid in great houses; and how I came to wed with a sweep I could hardly tell. But I would never let Sylvie go out with her father; no, nor never went out with him myself, for very shame of his trade. And nobody would believe Sylvie was a common child. It was a sore trouble to him, my pride and shame was, and I let him have no pleasure in Sylvie. Then she died quite sudden. I suppose I'd something like a stroke, but I was never right again; and she was so good to me, so good! He never said a word to blame me, though he were almost broken-hearted. Ever since then I've been lying here, till this place has come to be like the place where Jacob slept, and saw a ladder set up on the earth, reaching up to heaven, and angels ascending and descending upon it. I wake up sometimes, in the dead of the night, and say to myself, "Surely the Lord is in this place"."

"Are you scared?" asked Rachel. "Doesn't it make you afeared?"

"At first, at first," she answered, "but not now. If I could get the feeling that God was gone away, that would scare me. Oh! it would be dreadful to be in this place without God! It's all my comfort and gladness. Sometimes I say to myself, "I am poor and needy, yet the Lord thinketh upon me;" and I feel in my very heart He is really thinking of me and my wants."

"If He would but think of me and Rosy!" sobbed Rachel.

"Eh, lass! but isn't He thinking?" cried Mrs. Croft. "Who sent Sylvanus in your way last night, when you were at the worst pinch of all? And who put it into our hearts to keep you, instead of letting you go again into the streets, and you'd have been thankful only to be let go? By-and-by you'll be glad to feel as if God was with you all the day long."

"Oh! if He would only forgive me, and make me good!" sobbed Rachel again.

"He does forgive you, and me," she went on. "There was that poor woman who was a sinner, and washed the feet of Jesus. The good folks wondered at Him for letting her touch His feet, she was so wicked. But He let her wash them; ay! and kiss them over and over again, and anoint them with her precious ointment. And then He said to her, "Thy sins are forgiven." Why shouldn't He forgive you? He came for the very purpose. Could He do more than He has done for us? There's a verse of a hymn Sylvie learnt once; I'll say it to you:

The solemn words fell slowly on Rachel's ear. She could not understand them altogether; but the words that smote her heart most keenly were "After all His waste of love." Oh! if He had thrown away His love upon her all these years, whilst she had been sinning against Him, what a wretch she was! She would love Him back again with all her heart.

"I can't ever wash His feet, like that poor woman," she said softly, "and I can't ever take Rosy to Him, like those other women did their children, but maybe he'll let me show my love some other way."

Next day Rachel was going about the house in an old print gown of many colours which had been lying by since Mrs. Croft had been paralysed, and Rosy was dressed in some of Sylvie's clothes. Sylvanus was full of joy; he felt no suspicion of Rachel, and no dread of her turning out badly on his hands. Nothing was locked up in the house, and she had free access to every room. The place of a trusted and familiar friend was given to her at once, or rather that of a grown-up daughter. The second evening she was in the house she found the old man sitting by the kitchen fire with Rosy on his knee and her head resting peacefully on his shoulder.

"I'm learning her to call me grandad," he said, with a short, happy laugh, "grandad! Why, it might be Sylvie, grown up, and married below her, like mother, and come home again with her little girl! We've been talking about our poor eyes, and what's to be done, and how we'll go to a famous doctor I know quite well, a very clever doctor, and see what he can do for us. Rosy and grandad will go to-morrow."

There was nothing serious the matter with Rosy's sight. Now that she had good food and well-shod feet and warm clothing, they were quickly well again, and Rachel could see once more the pretty blue eyes of the baby she had lost when her sin committed her to a jail. More than ever Rachel's life was bound up in her little girl. Week after week, month after month, glided by, almost unmarked, whilst she, and Sylvanus, and Mrs. Croft watched the growth of the child. It was a very quiet home, but it was like a paradise to her; for no one fretted her, no one remembered her past life. Or if either the old man or his wife remembered it, neither of them spoke of it. When she herself looked back on the past, as sometimes a suddenly awakened memory compelled her to do, she felt as if she were dwelling in quite another world. All was so tranquil and so simple about her; the daily work sufficient to occupy without oppressing her; the evening rest in the snow-white chamber where Sylvanus read aloud, or made her read to the listening mother in bed; the untroubled nights, with Rosy slumbering beside her; the unbroken but cheerful sameness, after the wild sin and sorrow of her former days; all made it to her like another world.

Mrs. Croft had not expected Rachel to settle down so quickly and so easily into this new life. She had looked to see her pine after the freedom and excitement she had once had, and she had dreaded lest she should some day break out of bounds and give way to old temptations, to her own grief and that of her husband. But Rachel had taken simply a simple belief. She believed, now she could trust in God's love, that He was at all times present with her and tenderly watching over her conduct. She no longer doubted this, or was afraid of that loving presence; and the desire for the old sinful pleasures, so grievous to Him and so dangerous to herself, had passed away for ever. The thought of her old ignorance and guilt made her shudder, as if she were looking back down some fathomless gulf, from which a Father's hand had saved her. Rosy must never fall into that gulf as she had fallen!

"Mother," said Rosy, one Sunday evening after she had said all her hymns to Sylvanus, who held her tenderly on his knee, "mother, is father dead?"

Rachel started, and dropped the tray, which she was reaching down for tea. The colour fled from her face, and her lips quivered. What could have put such a question into Rosy's head?

"They asked me at Sunday-school," went on Rosy, "all that had got kind, good fathers were to stand up, and I didn't know what to do. When I said I didn't know, they laughed out at me; but I told them you'd know, and I'd ask before I came again. Is he dead, mother?"

It was as if the child had been stabbing to her heart. Every word wounded her. So many months had passed by now since Sylvanus found them both in the street, that she had ceased to think anything of her husband. At first there had been a lurking fear of him disturbing her tranquillity; and now Rosy's question stirred up the old dread and anxiety. What could she say to the child? Had Rosy, then, forgotten that her father was a convict like herself?

"Is he dead, mother?" persisted Rosy.

"No," muttered Rachel.

"Why! I thought he must be dead," Rosy went on; "why haven't I ever seen him, grandad? Where is he gone to? Didn't he love you, mother?"

"Oh! hush, hush, Rosy!" she cried, in quick, sorrowful tones; "be quiet now. I'll tell you all about him when you're a big girl, perhaps. You're too little yet."

"But what must I say at school?" she asked. "I thought I hadn't got any father, and I don't know where he is. I want to see him. Would he love me, mother?"

For a minute or two Rachel stood quite silent, thinking of her husband. How plainly she could see him in her mind, when he first made love to her! and when he took her home on their wedding-day, and laughed at her surprise at all the things he had bought for her! Had he really loved her then? She could remember how it was when the first freshness of their early married life was over; how cruel, and selfish, and ill-tempered he had shown himself, and how lazy, except when there was some wickedness afoot. He had cursed the birth of their little girl; and she could not recall one pleasant word or smile given to the baby who crowed and laughed in his face. He had been jealous of her, and enraged by his wifes passionate love for the helpless little creature, who was seldom out of her arms.

"No, he never loved you, my darling," she answered.

"My little lass," said Sylvanus, putting her off his knee, "run up to mother, and say your pretty hymns to her, till tea's ready. She loves to hear 'em; and then you sing till we can hear you down here; there's a little woman."

They listened in silence to the child's pattering feet climbing up the staircase. Rachel did not dare to meet the old man's eye. He had never uttered her husband's name to her, or referred to him in any way. Sylvanus knew nothing about him, except what she had said the night he had taken her into his home.

"Sylvie," said the old man, in a tremulous voice, "come here."

He had called her by his daughter's name once or twice before, and now the sound of it made her lift up her eyes to him. He was holding out his arms to her, and she threw herself down on the floor beside him, and hid her face upon his knee.

"My poor daughter!" he said; "my poor Sylvie! Tell me about him. The Lord cares for him, too, ay! and He's ready to receive him back any day. The Lord laid down His life for him. Tell me all about him, Rachel."

"Oh! he is so wicked," she sobbed, "so bad! I should never have been a thief but for him. He 'ticed me, and drove me, and worried me, till I was almost as bad as him. I dreamed once as he'd come back, and made Rosy a thief! I couldn't be a good woman if he found me."

"Where is he?" asked Sylvanus.

"He was sent to Gibraltar," she answered; "he wrote once to me in Thornbury jail, but I never wrote back. He can't come back for two years longer; but every day makes the time shorter, and I feel scared lest he should find out Rosy and me. If it were only me, I'd shake it off and try not to mind; but there's my Rosy, and just old enough to learn all sorts of badness."

"But, maybe," said the old man, "he's learned about the Lord, and His love, in prison, as you did, Rachel. The Lord knows all about him, as well as you and me. S'pose he comes home, set free from all his sins, and ready to serve the Lord with you?"

"I never thought of that," cried Rachel, looking up with a tear-stained face; "yes, God sees him as well as me, and loves him too. If he'd only come home a good man!"

"Or, may be, you'd win him to be a good man," said Sylvanus; "why! if he were as bad as bad can be, and you were forced to live with him, and see it, it 'ud be only like the Lord dwelling amongst us sinners, and being grieved day by day, with our sins.

But He's doing it to win us back to Him. Why! He might leave us alone, and live up in His glory in heaven, with the angels and archangels singing His praises, only He can't be content to leave us in our sin and misery. He'll be satisfied some day, the Lord will, and you'd be satisfied, Rachel, if you won your husband to be good, ay! though you had to go down into the pit for him."

"Ay, I should," she said, with a deep sigh, "only for Rosy."

"Well, well!" answered the old man, stroking her head softly, "the Lord will take care of His little lamb. Ay! and we'll take care of her too. You must run with this trouble to Him. Why! He isn't in some grand place a long way off like the best rooms in a great house, far away from the nursery, so as the children's noise can't be heard. The Lord's in the nursery, and if any trouble scares you, you can run and hide yourself in His arms. He's ready to take up the very least care of ours, like you'd stoop to take a pin out of Rosy's pinafore, if it was going to prick her. You take this trouble to Him, my lass, and don't bring it away with you again."

From that time the only fear that had haunted Rachel gradually died away. Nothing hindered her now from a simple striving to be good. Her past sins had been forgiven, and her future life lay before her, untroubled by any doubt of God's love for her. True, she could not altogether forget the years that she had spent in a prison cell, and often the remembrance that Rosy inherited a sullied and sad name from her came, like a cloud, across her calm tranquillity. The past could not be blotted out, no tears could wipe away the stain of it: even God's forgiveness could not efface it. She had been a thief; no power in earth or heaven could alter that. She could never be one oi those happy women who had resisted evil, and not fallen into sins like hers. But Rosy might be, nay, must be, among that glad and good company, knowing God, and loving Him, from her very childhood. And for herself, she trusted that some day or other she might hear Christ saying, "Her sins, which are many, are all forgiven, for she loved much."

Perhaps, of all the members of that little household, Sylvanus was the happiest. He had suffered much, while his little Sylvia was living, from his wife's false pride, which had deprived him of the joy and pleasure he might have had in his child. After her death, he had sorrowed for her silently, never letting his grief betray itself before his poor paralytic wife; and as the years had gone by, he had kept count of them, picturing to himself his little girl growing up into a woman, his grown-up daughter. When Rachel and Rosy came, he seemed to have restored to him, not only his grown-up daughter, but his little, prattling, playful Sylvie, who was allowed to watch for him at the door, and run down the street to meet him, even when he was coming home, soiled and begrimed with his work.

He was not now a struggling man, doubtful whether he could make both ends meet. He had his regular employers, and plenty of work for himself and the two or three men who helped him in his trade. Rosy's maintenance was no burden to him, and he used to say triumphantly that Rachel was worth her weight in gold. Never had the house been so clean, or his wife's room so spotlessly white. Never had there been so little money needed for housekeeping. Rachel baked and cooked, and washed and mended, as if the house were her own. It was her home. There was no mention made of her seeking a better place, or going into service in some grand house. Sylvanus pressed money upon her in payment, which she refused to have, and then it became an occupation and a delight to the old man to look into the shop windows, and buy the dresses he liked most for both her and Rosy. He had never tasted that pleasure before.

Now and then in the early summer time, when business was slack with him, Sylvanus would take both of them out into the country for a day in his little trap, which was specially cleaned up for the purpose. No words can tell Rachel's quiet gladness on those sunny days, to feel her feet treading once more among the tufts of grass, and to seethe cows feeding in the meadows, as in the old times when she was a girl, and was sent morning and evening to fetch the cattle home, through fields scattered over with butter-cups and daisies, and under hedgerows where the Hawthorns showered down their snowy blossoms upon her. Sometimes they passed by a farmstead, and she could hardly keep herself from cluck-clucking to the busy brown hens and little downy chickens, as if she had a lapful of corn to toss among them. And in the hay-fields, oh how they brought her merry childhood back to her, when she had helped to rake up the sweet-scented swathes of hay into cocks, standing all in lines, like so many rows of thatched cottages, with a village street between them. Rosy did not gather the opening flowers more eagerly than she did, though Rosy's laughter rang through the quiet lanes, while Rachel smiled but sadly, when she did smile. The great storm of life that had burst over her so fiercely had swept away laughter and loud merriment from her.

Many and many a time had Sylvanus talked of going down to the sea-coast for a day, by one of the cheap trains. He had never seen the sea, nor had Rachel and Rosy, who came from an inland county. They had spoken about it on winter nights, by the fireside, and on Sunday evenings, after Rosy had said her hymns, speaking of it as some great and almost solemn holiday. But summer after summer had gone by without bringing the exact day when the pleasure could be taken without drawback, until it had become almost like a dream to them all.

At last the dream was to come true. A splendid Whit week was gladdening all the people, and holiday trains were running every day to Brighton at low fares, and starting so early in the morning that they would be some hours on the coast. Rosy was nearly ten years old now; a pretty, bright-eyed girl, well-made and healthy, the very life of the house. Sylvanus believed that no such child had ever lived before.

"Rachel," he said, on Whit Monday, "the time's come at last. To-morrow we'll be off to the sea. You go and buy something nice for us to eat, such as the little lass 'll like best; while I seek somebody to stay with poor mother all day. Poor mother, if she could only come with us, I'd be the happiest man in London, whoever the next one might be."

"Let me go with you, mother," cried Rosy eagerly, "and I'll carry your basket for you."

"No, no," answered Rachel, "you stay at home, like a good girl, and read something pretty to Mrs. Croft. She'll be by herself all day to-morrow, while we're enjoying ourselves, you know."

"I'll stay if you'll give me twenty kisses," said Rosy, clinging to her, and hindering her from setting off. Rachel kissed her fondly, and looked back as she passed over the door-sill, to see her standing at the foot of the staircase, nodding and smiling gaily. It was a lovely day, and Rachel herself felt more light-hearted than usual. The month of May was drawing to a close; and the sun had been shining in a cloudless sky since its rising, yet there had been no sultry heat, even in the streets of London. A cool Ireshness was in the air, as soon as the sun sank down in the west, foretelling heavy dews out in the country, and overhead light, filmy threads of silver mist floated slowly across the blue, taking tints of rose and gold as they caught the rays of the setting sun. There was no fear of the weather to-morrow, for the sky was deepening into red. "Red in the morning is the shepherd's warning, red at night is the shepherd's delight," said Rachel to herself, as she passed busily through the streets on her errands, and thought of Rosy's joy. She wondered what the great unknown sea would be like. She had seen many pictures of storms at sea, when wild waves tossed the ships about like cockleshells, but she could hardly believe it would look like that under a calm summer sky, with only breeze enough to fan her cheek softly. Well, to-morrow she would know.

The station from which they would have to start was less than a mile from their house, and she was so near to it when she had made her last purchase, that she thought she had better go on-~and inquire particularly the exact minute early in the morning when the train would set off. The streets were all in a stir about the station. Rachel made her way along, down the covered approach to the entrance of the ticket-office, smiling as she thought how Rosy's feet would dance along the pavement at her side, how Rosy's tongue would chatter when they were fairly off on their day's pleasure, and how Sylvanus would pace on, with his grey head tossed back a little, and with a beaming look spreading over his furrowed lace. What a happy day it was going to be tomorrow!

All at once there flashed across her mind the memory of the summer day, when she had stood at the bar before the judge, and the sun had shone in upon her through some uncurtained window, till she could not lift up her eyes to see his face. Why did she think of it now, when the thought of it had slept so many months? She tried to shake it off. No one could suspect her of ever having been a jail-bird. Her face had lost its old gloom and sullenness. She was neatly dressed, and her manner was soft and quiet. Even if she went back to her native place no one could know her for the wild, giddy, unprincipled girl who had so swiftly brought shame and sorrow on herself. The porter to whom she spoke answered her pleasantly and civilly, not at all as if he could guess what she had once been.

"At five o'clock precise the train starts," he said; "and if you'll take my advice you'll be here at 4.30 to secure good places."

"Oh! we'll come in good time," she answered; "my little girl 'ill never sleep a wink all night."

There was a group of idlers loafing outside the door of the ticket-office, but Rachel had not glanced at them. Her clear voice had spoken so distinctly as to cause her words to be heard above the clamour of other speakers. One of the men, who was lounging against a pillar, started up at the sound.

"Why, Rachel, my girl!" he cried with an oath.

"Rachel!" and he laid his hand upon her, "don't you know me again, my lass?"

Know him! As his voice fell upon her ear, all the sunny light, and the merry sounds about her, grew dim and confused. Her heart was ceasing to beat, and all her strength was passing away from her.

But she did not fall, for the man who had spoken to her caught her in his arms, and at the feeling that his arms were about her a pang of terror brought her back fully to her senses, and to the reality of the great misery that lay before her.

"Rachel," he said again, "cheer up, my girl. Why, you're prettier than ever! She's my wife, lads, that I've been hunting for up and down the country, and all about London here. It was misfortune parted us, no fault of hers or mine. But I'm her husband, and she's my wife, till death us do part, the parson said. I'll not let thee out of my sight again. Come, give me a kiss at meeting, Rachel."

But she had wrenched herself out of his grasp, and stood leaning against the wall for support. She felt scarcely strong enough to keep from falling to the ground. A crowd was quickly gathering about him and her, watching and listening with a sort of pleasure in her misery; but not one face was distinct to her except his, her husband's. He did not put his hand on her again, but he stood close beside her. There was no chance of escape from him.

"I've been down in the country seeking you," he said in a loud voice, so as to be heard by the policeman, who was forcing his way through the crowd towards them. "Mrs. Curtis said you'd come to London, but she knew nothing more about you, and you'd never wrote again to her. Old Curtis is dead. Where are you and Rosy living here?"

"Oh!" she cried, in a voice that was lamentable to hear, "I'll never let you know where my Rosy is! Will anybody tell me if I'm bound to go with this man? He's my husband, but he's been away from me more than eight years, and I don't know whether he's any right to claim me now."

There was something so mournful about Rachel's voice and manner, and the man who claimed her was so disreputable and worthless a scoundrel, with such a hang-dog look about him, that the feeling of the greater number of the lookers-on was enlisted on her side. But by this time the policeman had pushed his way through the crowd, and stood looking calmly on, ready to settle any question in dispute. Trevor whispered a few words in his ear, and he turned to Rachel, speaking authoritatively, yet almost pitifully to her.

"You'll have to go back to him," he said; "it isn't as if he'd kept away from you of his own free will. If you're married to him, you're his wife, and the law says he's a right to claim you. I can't say anything contrary to law, and that's the law."

"I don't want to force her away all at once," said Trevor, "but it's only fair I should know where's she living, and where our little girl's living. I've a right to my own little girl, I reckon. I'm able, and ready, and willing to make a home for both of 'em; and I'll be as good as a man can be to 'em both. I can't say fairer than that, can I? Only let her show me where she's living, and I'll leave her alone for a day or two till she's pacified and content."

While he was speaking a great struggle was going on in Rachel's heart. She must never, never let her husband know where Rosy lived. Rosy, her pretty, bonny girl, just old enough to need more care and watchfulness than ever, how could she let her be dragged down into the shameful depths into which her father would plunge her? Yet to save her she must make a living, an entire sacrifice of herself. She must consent to forego everything that was precious and good to her; even the small easement of her own hard lot which Sylvanus and Mrs. Croft could give. She must herself shut the door upon all hope, and peace, and comfort; from all chance of help to live a Christian life; and she must go down, step by step, into the great gulf where no light could reach her. "God help me!" she murmured, "God help me!" But her soul was too troubled for her to feel how near He was to her just then.

"I'll go with him," she said, looking despairingly into the policeman's face, "if I must go; but I'll never let him know where my little Rosy lives."

"You hear her," said the policeman in a sharp, stern tone ; "she says she'll go with you. Now, take her off, out of here; and mind how you behave to her, my fine fellow, or the magistrate 'ill give her a divorce from you. If I could have my way, she should go scot free now."

Trevor was too cowed to answer, though he drew Rachel's hand through his arm, and marched off blusteringly. A few persons followed him and his unhappy wife for a little way along the streets, and he out-stared them in an insolent manner. Rachel walked beside him in dumb despair. At last, one by one, their escort fell away; and they were left alone, mingling unnoticed with the stream of passers-by, not one of whom could guess the wretchedness that was breaking Rachel's heart.

Trevor hardly knew what to do now he had discovered his wife. He had no place to take her to, not even a lodging; for since he had been in London he had turned into any low den, in the worst streets, for a shelter at night. His time was not yet served out; and though he had destroyed his ticket-of-leave, he was too much afraid of being known as a felon, to be willing to bring-himself under the notice of the police. He determined to speak softly to his wife. In old times she had had a will of her own, and he knew he could do little with her by sheer tyranny.

They were not far from Hyde Park, and Trevor turned his steps towards it, for there they might find a place quiet enough to talk in. The sun had set by the time they reached it, but the birds were singing merrily in the topmost branches, where the light still lingered. A star or two was shining faintly in the sky, and the creeping twilight was softening everything about them. Rachel knew that they would begin to wonder at home what could keep her out so long. Rosy was watching for her to come up the street, and fancying she saw her in the dusk. She sank down on one of the park seats, and covering her face with her hands, burst into a passion of tears. She had not uttered a word since she had heard her sentence pronounced by the policeman; but at the remembrance of her peaceful, lost home, she cried aloud, "O God, help me! O God, save me!"

"I don't mean to be hard on you," muttered Trevor, "only you're my wife, you know, and Rosy's my child Why! I mean to be good to you both. You just show me where you two are living, and I'll not come near you again for a week. Come! that's fair, and you can go your pleasuring to-morrow all right. I don't want to spoil sport. Rosy 'll be a big girl now, I reckon; and if she takes after you she's a pretty one, I'll wager."

"Trevor," she said, with difficulty mastering her tears, and speaking as clearly as she could, "if you'd tell me where you live, and let me go home this once, without following me, I'd promise you faithful to come anywhere you tell me; to-morrow, or any day you fix. I would for certain. Only I want them at home to know what's happened, and how it is I must leave them all."

"You aren't married again?" he interrupted sharply.

"No, oh no!" she cried, "I'm in service. Don't look like that at me. They are good folks I'm living with, and they've taught me to be good."

"Good!" he repeated, "you used to be a good one, as good as any girl in England. You were fond of me once, Rachel; what's come over you to turn so rough on me? Scores, ay, hundreds o' times I've thought of you, out yonder, you and Rosy; and I've said to myself, "Lad, there's one that's true to you as 'll welcome you kindly when you get back again." Why, when Mrs. Curtis told me nobody knew what had become of you, you might have knocked me down with a straw. I'd counted on you watching out and waiting for me. Times and times again I'd have given all I had in the world for a kiss from you and Rosy."

Rachel's heart was stirred again to hope, as she listened to her husband's kind and gentle words, spoken in the same low tone he used to talk to her in the days long ago, when she had often stolen away from the Hall kitchen to meet him in the rickyard, amid the ricks of scented hay. She could hear again the rustling of wings and the chirping of the crowds of little birds under the thatch of the corn-stack, and the lowing of the oxen in the farmyard close by, and the swinging-to of the gate on its creaking hinges, which gave them warning that somebody was nigh at hand, and made them run, half-laughing and half-frightened, to hide themselves in the deepest shadows of the brown ricks. She had loved him then in her way.

It was quite true, and her heart beat with a feeling of the old tenderness coming into life again. In the growing dusk of the evening she drew closer to him, and kissed him as she had often done in the Hall stack-yard.

"Oh! if you were only a good man!" she sobbed, "we might all be so happy again, you and Rosy and me. Wasn't there any good chaplain out yonder to teach you about our Saviour and God, that sees us always, ay! all we've ever done that's wicked, and spite of all loves us yet? The chaplain at Thornbury taught me first, and the folks I live with now taught me more; till I can never be the same again."

"It's nothing save an old woman's tale," said Trevor, with a sneer, "or it's only what rich folks 'ud have us poor folks believe, to keep us down. They don't believe God sees 'em, idling away their days, and making ducks and drakes of their money, whilst folks are clemming to death close by, and have nought save the bare floor to die on. No, no, Rachel. They don't believe that, and they've got all the learning; only it's safe for them to teach us so. I thought you'd been sharper than to swallow that."

"I couldn't give up believing that," she said softly. "I love to think of it."

They sat silent for a little while; Rachel pondering in her mind what she ought to do. There seemed no choice offered to her; no way of escape was open, though she seized eagerly upon every thought that crossed her bewildered brain. Trevor's face told too plainly its story of a drunken and vicious life, for her to hope that there was any change in him, even if he had made any profession of being reformed, He looked harder and more cruel than when he was a young man. Yet there came a great flood of pity and sorrow for him across her heart. His state was so miserable, so helpless; as wretched as her own had once been, before Sylvan-us Croft had rescued her He seemed so neglected and so desolate, as though neither man nor woman cared for him. The very rents and tatters in his clothing appealed to her. She was his wife; no one stood so near to him as she did, and she had chosen to take her place beside him when she married him. If only he was not Rosy's father!

There was the rub! But for Rosy she was ready, almost willing, to leave her tranquil, comfortable home, and share his lot with him. It would be wretchedness to her to be forced into companionship with evil; but she was a grown woman, with some strength to defend herself and with God's help she could overcome temptation, and live a good life, if an unhappy one, with her husband. It would be her duty to do so. She might even win him back at last; and have the joy the angels in heaven have over one sinner that repenteth. But Rosy could not live in the midst of sin. No; she must die rather than let him know where her darling was.

"Come, Rachel," he said, pleasantly, "a penny for your thoughts!"

"I'll go with you," she answered, in a mournful tone, "wherever you choose to take me, and I'll be as good a wife to you as I can. Only I can't give up believing in God, and trying to be good; no, not if you killed me for it, and you won't like that. I don't know what rich folks and scholars believe, but ever since I've felt sure that God sees us and loves us, bad as we are, and low as we are, why, I've been a better woman, and a happier woman than ever I thought to be when I was in Thornbury jail."

Trevor whistled the air of an old song, which Rachel remembered well, but before he came to the end of it he stopped suddenly.

"Well," he said, "are you going to stop here all night?"

"I'll go where you go," she answered. "I haven't got any home but yours now."

"Aren't you going to show me where you live, then?" he asked.

"No, never!" said Rachel. "I'll never tell you where my Rosy is, though it 'll break my heart to keep away from her. But she's safe, and happy, and good where she is; and, please God, she'll never be like me."

"But I'll find her out! said Trevor, with an oath; "she'd be worth any money to me. You'll never keep away from her, and you'll never keep up your religion where we shall