"It's All Real True"

MOLLY AND KATHLEEN.

NIGHT was falling on the city of London, a night of wind and rain, following a day of clouds and gloom. The rain was sharp and penetrating, and the wind piercingly cold.

No one would readily choose to walk abroad on such a night. Walking, indeed, was no easy matter, for the pavements were wet and slippery, and on the roads the horses could with difficulty be driven over the mud. Yet, despite the cold and wet, wherever there were shops, the streets were filled with people, for it was Saturday evening, and many poor folk were unable to do their marketing for the morrow until this late hour.

Along the Edgware Road, stalls had been placed beside the pavements, and shrill-voiced costermongers were doing a brisk trade in more or less tempting edibles, whilst more particular purchasers hurried to the shops on either side the way. Into this thoroughfare, from one of the narrower streets opening on to it, came a little girl. She walked with rapid, certain step, and appeared in no way dismayed by the noise and bustle around her.

Threading her way through the crowd gathered on the pavement, she darted on to the road, and nimbly dodging the numerous vehicles, soon gained the other side, and entered a chemist's shop there. The shop was small and already full of customers, so the child, being tiny and insignificant, had to stand in a corner and wait patiently till the chemist had leisure to attend to her. She was a strange-looking child, so small that no one would have taken her to be nearly eleven years old, had not her pale, thin face worn a look of care, far older than her age. Her figure was deformed, as well as stunted, for one shoulder rose higher than the other, and the hump below was scarcely hidden by the shabby cloak she wore.

The child shivered as she stood in the warm, bright shop, and tried to shake the wet from her frock, which was of far too frail a texture for that damp night. Then she pushed back the thick, wet locks of reddish-brown hair that were falling over her forehead, and longing for her turn to come, watched with shrewd glances of her dark, deep-set eyes, the movements of the chemist, as with wonderful quickness he supplied, one after another, the wants of his customers.

Her patience was sorely tried. No sooner did one person leave the shop than another entered, and it seemed impossible for her to get near the counter. Even when she did push her way to it, she was still kept waiting, for she was but a child, and what did it matter whether a child were kept waiting a few minutes more or less? But at last her turn came.

"Well, Molly," said the chemist, sharply, but not unkindly, "what is it you want?"

"Some more cough-mixture for father," she answered, hastily producing a bottle from beneath her cloak, "and, oh! 'please,' sir, will you give me something different this time? That other stuff didn't do father no good. His cough is worse than ever."

"Dear, dear! That's bad," said the chemist, as he took the bottle from the child's hand, "and it's ill weather for coughs. However, I'll see what I can do."

Molly watched him eagerly as he proceeded to prepare the medicine. She wondered how he knew which drug to take from so many, but he seemed to experience no difficulty in selecting. And in a very few minutes, the bottle was again in the child's hand.

"Do you think this will make father quite better?" asked Molly, as she stood on tip-toe to place her shilling on the counter.

"I hope so," he replied, looking compassionately at the child, for he had not the heart to tell her that he believed her father's cough to be beyond his power to cure. "I hope so, my dear, but not if he goes out this weather, you know."

"But he 'must' go out; he cannot stay at home," said Molly, sorrowfully. "He has his work to do, and if he did not work, he would get no money to pay the rent."

"Dear, dear! That's bad," said the chemist again. "But try to get him to stay in for a few days, whilst this rough weather lasts. And give him a dose of medicine to-night and another to-morrow morning, and we'll see what that does for him."

In a moment Molly was out of the shop, and running across the road soon reached her home in a narrow gloomy street, not far distant.

Passing into the house, she climbed a steep, and not too clean, staircase, and entered a back room on the second floor.

It was a long, narrow room, with low ceiling and dingy walls. A slight partition divided it at the farther end, and the space thus enclosed, though hardly larger than a cupboard, made a little bedroom for Molly and her sister Kathleen.

The place was in darkness when Molly entered, save for the faint, flickering light of the feeble fire which burned in the grate. Its light, however, sufficed to reveal the form of a tall, thin man, with stooping shoulders and narrow, contracted chest, who bent shivering over the fire, vainly trying to warm himself by its fitful glow.

"Is that you, Molly?" he asked, in a hollow voice, as the child opened the door.

"Yes, father, it's me," she said, "and I've got some new mixture for you, some stuff that Mr. Turner thinks is sure to make you well."

For thus had Molly's hope interpreted the chemist's few words.

But her father seemed to have little faith in the power of the medicine.

He sighed wearily, then exclaimed, in a fretful tone, "It's little good the mixture is likely to do me, Molly, if you leave that door open, with such a draught coming up the stairs as will give me my death of cold."

Molly closed the door in a moment.

"There's no chance of my cough leaving me whilst this bitter weather lasts," continued her father, "but when the spring comes—yes, when the warm days begin, I may hope to get well. But it is a long while to wait."

"Yes, there'll be a long time first," said Molly, sadly, as standing by the fire she tried to stir the fading embers into a blaze.

"Put on some more coal, child!" exclaimed her father, peevishly. "I'm almost perished with cold. You ought to have made up the fire before you went out. And pray light a candle; I hate to sit in darkness."

"There's very little coal left," said Molly, as, having found a piece of candle and lighted it, she proceeded to place a few tiny knobs of coal on the fire, touching them very tenderly in her consciousness of their value. "I want to make it last over to-morrow. Perhaps the manager will pay Kathleen to-night, and then we can buy some more."

"To think I should live to depend on my darling's earnings!" sighed her father. "Oh, dear! What will become of us? I've earned scarcely anything this week; and next week will be worse, I fear. Molly, the master told me to-day that he saw I was not fit for my work, and he thought I had better keep at home till I was better. And he was right, for indeed I could not make fair work of it to-day. I turned faint, and was obliged to lay down my tools and rest for a while."

"Never mind, father," said little Molly, soothingly, though the anxious look on her face deepened; "you'll be better in a few days, I daresay, and able to go to work again."

Her words were interrupted by her father's violent cough. Molly watched him fearfully as he struggled for breath.

"You must take some of this stuff at once," she said.

And fetching a cup from the cupboard, she poured out a dose of medicine and held it to his lips.

He drank it, and soon ceased to cough. "You are a good child, Molly," he said; "you remind me of your mother, for you've got her ways somehow, though you're not a bit like her in the face. Kathleen is more like her. Ah! My pretty Kathleen! To think she should dance at a theatre for the sake of earning a few shillings! But what could I do? The child wanted to earn money, and it seemed the easiest way."

"Don't you trouble about it, father," said Molly; "Kathleen does not mind it; she says she likes the fun."

"That only makes it worse," he answered, sharply; "it's not the right sort of life for a girl to lead. But you don't understand; how should you, you poor little thing? You don't know what a bad world it is. But you'll find it out one day, Molly. You'll see that it's a bad, cruel world, where no one is to be trusted, and you must fight your own way, for there's no one to help you or care for you."

He spoke in a tone of despair.

Molly's sad face grew sadder as she listened.

"I've had a hard struggle," continued James Macardie, taking a sorrowful review of his past history; "and I've always been the most unlucky fellow in the world. Everything has been against me—yes, everything. I've never had any of the happy chances which fall to some men's lot; such luck as my brother Tom had, for instance. There is he, now making his fortune in Australia, I'll be bound, whilst I—see what I am! No one to look at me would think that my father was a well-to-do cabinet maker at Liverpool."

"Does your brother Tom know how poor you are?" asked his little daughter.

"No, he knows nothing about me. We had words together before he went abroad. He interfered with me in a way I could not stand, and I would have nothing more to say to him. He wrote to me once or twice after he reached Australia, but I took no notice of his letters. I was sorry for it afterwards, and wrote to him several times asking him to overlook the past, but it was of no use. My letters were never answered."

"Perhaps he never got them," said Molly.

"Perhaps not. I can't tell how it was, but I was sorry, for I thought he might do something for Kathleen, if he did not care to help me again. Poor Kathleen! Dancing at a theatre! Oh! I thought to bring her up so differently! I meant to give her a good education and make a lady of her. I was so proud of my pretty Kathleen, with her quick, bright ways and roguish tricks."

These plaintive utterances were succeeded by another fit of coughing, and thoroughly exhausted, he was obliged to lean back in his chair and keep silence.

It was growing late. Molly spread a cloth on the table, and placed thereon part of a loaf of bread, and a piece of hard, dry cheese. Then she sat down quietly by her father's side, regarding him with sorrowful glances, for she thought she had never seen him so ill as he seemed to-night. She was frightened therefore when he suddenly roused from the doze into which he had fallen, and glancing at the old Dutch clock in the corner, got up from his chair, crossed the room with feeble steps and took down the coat and hat which hung behind the door.

"Oh! Father!" she exclaimed. "You will not think of going out again this night! Indeed you are not fit."

"You forget that Kathleen must be fetched from the theatre," he answered, hoarsely, as with trembling hands he put on his coat. "I would not have her come home alone through the streets for the world. I will take care of her whilst I can, my poor Kathleen. I ought never to have consented to her going to that place, but I will do my best to shield her from its dangers."

Molly said no more, for she knew it would be useless. Her face wore a look of fear, as candle in hand she stood at the top of the stairs to light her father, as grasping the rickety balusters for support, he went down.

She listened to the sound of his footsteps after he had passed out of her sight. They seemed to grow fainter and fainter, till suddenly the sound ceased, though she knew her father could not yet have left the house. Molly rushed down-stairs in a moment. Below she saw her father, overcome by sudden faintness, clinging for support to the open house door, while the cold damp air beat upon him.

"Father, come in," cried Molly; "you are ill, you cannot go!"

"No, I must give it up," he murmured; "I cannot go, I have no strength. But oh! Kathleen!"

"Never mind about Kathleen, father," said Molly, as she helped him up the stairs. "I will go and meet her, and tell her how ill you are."

"You go, child! How can you take care of Kathleen? You need taking care of yourself, you poor little thing!"

"But, father, I'm not like Kathleen, you know. I can go out alone in the evening, and no one takes any notice of me. I should be company for her."

"That's true," said her father, as he sunk weariedly into his chair; "no one will notice a child like you. You may go, Molly. Make all the haste you can, and tell Kathleen to come home quickly by the quietest streets."

Molly lingered for a few minutes, not liking to leave her father in such a weak state. But he was impatient for her to be off, and would not let her stay.

So out into the cold, wet streets again went Molly. The strong wind drove against her, and the pitiless rain drenched her light garments, but she struggled bravely on, and soon reached the theatre where Kathleen was to be found. No one observed the little deformed child as she sped along through the wind and rain.

She reached the theatre just as the people were beginning to come out.

Elbowing her way through the crowd at the main entrance, she went to a side door at which her father had told her to await Kathleen. She had to stand for many minutes shivering in the cold ere any one issued from this door. At last, however, it was opened and the players began to come out. Some bold-looking girls appeared, who talked and laughed loudly as they brushed past little Molly, standing in the shelter of the doorway. Kathleen was not with these. Presently she came out alone and stood for a moment on the steps, peering into the darkness beyond.

"I cannot see father anywhere," she said to herself, half aloud.

"I am here, Kathleen!" exclaimed Molly, springing forward. "Father was so ill, he could not come, so he sent me."

"Father ill!" said her sister. "What do you mean?"

"His cough has been worse than ever to-day," replied Molly. "And when he was coming to meet you, he turned so faint, he could not get along. So I've come instead, and father said I was to tell you to come home as quickly as possible by the quietest streets."

"All right, let's make haste," cried Kathleen, starting off at so quick a pace that Molly could hardly keep up with her.

No one looking at the two as they hurried on their way would have taken them for sisters. There was nothing attractive in Molly's thin, wizened face, with its unchildlike look of care, but Kathleen's was a face which could not fail to call forth admiration.

Her eyes shone like stars beneath the bright black tresses which waved on her brow; her cheeks were round and rosy, her lips like coral, and her look free and careless as that of a child. She was in truth little more than a child, being but fifteen years old, though tall for her years, with a pretty figure and graceful bearing. She differed from Molly in character as much as in appearance.

Kathleen was one to take things easily. Care could not lay hold on her as on little Molly. She would be cross and fretful when things were not to her mind, but she had a happy knack of shaking off her annoyance in a moment, and making the most of every bit of enjoyment which came in her way.

Molly knew well that she was not like Kathleen. The sense of inferiority to her sister kept her humble, and she never dreamed of resenting the way in which Kathleen tyrannised over her. Sometimes it pained her to think how different they were. She knew her father did not love her as he loved Kathleen. She was poor little Molly, ugly and crooked; he could take no pride in her.

Little love or care had Molly's childhood known, for her birth had cost her mother's life, and her father had no welcome for the sickly babe which brought such trouble to his home. Yet Molly had lived to repay with warm love the indifference with which her father and sister regarded her. And though she often wished she were more like Kathleen, no envy mingled with the wish to prevent her taking a loving pride in Kathleen's beauty.

"Has the manager paid you, Kathleen?" inquired Molly anxiously, as they went along.

"Yes, he has paid me. Listen!"—And Kathleen shook her pocket that Molly might hear the shillings rattle. "Doesn't that sound nice? What say you—shall we buy some hot pies for supper?"

"Father might like one, perhaps," said Molly. "He has eaten scarcely anything to-day, and we've nothing but bread and cheese. But don't buy one for me. There are such lots of things to buy. We want coals and candles, and almost everything, I think."

"I wonder when father will be able to do full work again," said Kathleen, discontentedly; "it's rather hard that my money should have to go for coals and candles."

"Kathleen," asked Molly, gravely, "have you ever thought—what if father should die?"

Kathleen started at the unexpected question, and the colour left her cheek for a moment, but it quickly returned as she replied in a tone of angry remonstrance:

"What do you mean, Molly, by saying such a thing? Father is not likely to die; there is nothing the matter with him but a cough. I wish you would not frighten me so."

"I am very sorry," returned Molly, humbly. "I did not mean to frighten you."

"What can have put such a thought into your head, I can't imagine," added Kathleen, still looking disturbed.

"I don't know," said Molly, "it came to me quite suddenly, and I could not get rid of it. But I'm glad you think it won't happen."

"Of course not. Don't name such a thing to me again, pray."

"No, I won't," said little Molly; and she kept her word.

A SAD FAREWELL.

IT was Sunday night, some weeks later. The bells of the churches rang clearly on the keen frosty air, and from the squares and terraces lying near the Edgware Road numbers of well-dressed folks were hastening to attend evening service. Not that all who trod the pavements were abroad for so good a purpose. There were at least as many pleasure-seekers as church-goers passing along the road. The clatter of cabs and omnibuses was almost as great as on a week-day. Here and there a shop might be seen open, whilst at every corner stood groups of idle lads and giddy girls, whose empty laughter fell harshly on the ear. Wending her way amidst the motley crowd of pleasure-seekers and church-goers, with quick step and eager anxious face, came little Molly.

But it was neither pleasure nor piety which had brought her forth on this sharp winter's night. She knew little enough of either, poor child. She had never been inside a church in her life, and her knowledge of religion was limited to some vague notions picked up in the days when her father had been able to send her to school. She knew the name of God as that of a mighty Being who lived in a far-off place called heaven. But of the Father's love for His children, and the Son He gave to save them, she was as ignorant as any heathen child.

Perhaps if her mother had lived, Molly would have learned to love the Saviour. But her father had no religious faith, and his children had grown up with scarce any knowledge of Christian truth.

It was a sad errand on which Molly was bound this evening. She was hurrying along to find the parish doctor, and get him to come to her father, who to-night was so very ill that even Kathleen was alarmed. He had not gone to work since the day when he returned home so ill. His strength had declined rapidly from that time, and now for many days, he had been unable to leave his bed.

Molly gained the doctor's door only to learn that he was from home, and would not be back for some hours. She was cast down at hearing this. But the servant promised to tell the doctor of her father's case as soon as he should return. And with this promise, Molly had to be content.

Weary and sad, the child turned her steps towards home. As she drew near the house, she saw a crowd of persons gathered at the corner of the street, to listen to the words of a young man who was addressing them in clear, animated tones. Molly looked curiously at the people, but was passing on her way, when the speaker's words reached her ear, and so attracted her that she could not help standing still to listen.

   "Friends," she heard him say, "I have good news for you to-night. Yes, good news for every one of you. No matter how poor and sad, how wicked and miserable you may be, there is a Friend who loves you. He loves you, but He does not love your sin. No; He wishes to save you from your sin, for it is your greatest misery, and He can save you, however vile and bad you may be, if only you will put your trust in Him. You may have wandered far, far from all that is good and holy, you may have gone astray like a lost sheep, but you have not got beyond the reach of this Friend, 'for the Son of man is come to seek and to save that which was lost.'

   "I wonder if any one of you knows what it is to be lost? Have you ever been benighted on a dreary moorland, and wandering from the track lost yourself on the wild waste, without a guide, without a light, all alone in the darkness?

   "Ah! If so, you remember how glad you were when you saw the gleam of a light, or heard the sound of a voice, or felt the grasp of a friendly hand willing and able to guide you on your way.

   "Friends, there are many lost souls in this great city of London. What a wilderness it is, with its numberless streets and lanes, its dark courts and slums! What pitfalls there are to catch unwary feet; what perils, seen and unseen, on every hand! Oh! The sin and misery which lie around us! But in the midst of it all, the Son of man is seeking His lost children. He is calling them to come to Him that He may make them good and happy. Oh! Who would wander alone in such a desert, when there is this loving Friend waiting to lead willing feet out of the darkness and danger into the safe and happy pastures where the Good Shepherd feeds His flock? The Son of man is come to seek and to save that which was lost."

Molly heard no more. She would have liked to listen longer, but she dare not stay. "I wish I knew what it all meant," she said to herself, as she ran home.

Her face grew very grave when she entered the room and saw her father's state.

He was lying propped up in bed, with a look of bitter anguish on his pale, wasted face, as he struggled for breath. Kathleen stood by the bed, sobbing bitterly, and the landlady of the house, who had come to offer assistance, was also present.

"Is the doctor coming?" asked this woman, when she saw Molly.

"I could not find him," said the child; "he was away from home."

"Ah! Well, it can't make much difference," the woman observed, in an undertone.

Molly wondered what she could mean.

But she did not explain her words, and having done what she could for the sufferer, she went down-stairs again.

Molly crept close to the bed, and took her father's hand in hers. He slightly pressed it, then extending the other, signed to Kathleen to come nearer. She came and stood by Molly.

"Kiss me, my darling child," he said.

Kathleen stooped down and kissed him. Molly too pressed forward for a kiss, but her father scarcely heeded her caress.

"My pretty Kathleen," he said, tenderly and sorrowfully, "my precious child, how can I leave you? Yet I must, I must. There is no help for it now."

"Oh, father! Do not talk so," cried Kathleen, in a passion of tears; "you cannot, you must not leave me."

"There is no help for it," he repeated, mournfully; "do you think I would not stay, if I could? How can I bear to leave you all alone? What will become of you, with no one to take care of you? You will be lost, you and Molly, in this wilderness of London!"

"This wilderness of London!" Molly thought of the preacher's words in a moment.

Would it comfort her father to hear what she had heard? It was not easy to speak, with such a lump rising in her throat, but she forced back her sobs, and asked in a little, quavering voice, "Father, have you ever heard tell of the Son of man?"

He started at her words, and turned his eyes upon her with an eager, wistful gaze.

"Molly, what do you mean? Who has been speaking to you?"

"It was a man I heard in the street," she said; "he kept saying these words:

   "'The Son of man is come to seek and to save that which was lost.'"

"Tell me," he said, feebly, still with that painful, yearning look—"tell me all that he said."

As well as she could, Molly repeated what she had heard the preacher say.

Her father seemed to drink in eagerly every word she uttered. And when she stopped, he begged her to tell him more.

Molly could only say the same again.

"Ah! I have heard that before," said her father; "your mother used to talk like that. She believed in religion, but I never did. I wish I knew if it were true. But it's too late now. Oh, if only I had thought more about these things when I was well and strong. Oh, children, don't think to make yourselves better when you lie on a death-bed. It is too late then, depend upon it. Your mother used to tell me that I must repent and believe, but how can I repent now? I don't know how to repent and believe. It's too late—too late!"

He ended with a groan, and quite exhausted with the effort he had made to utter these words, said no more.

It was piteous to see his mournful look, but what could little Molly in her ignorance say to comfort him? Nothing. All she could do was to show her loving sympathy by keeping close to his side, and tenderly stroking his wasted hand.

For a long time there was silence in the room, broken only by the sound of the sufferer's labouring breath. Kathleen crouched sobbing on the hearth-rug, whilst Molly sat beside the bed holding her father's cold, clammy hand in hers. The evening wore on, but the doctor did not come. Gradually the noises in the house ceased, as one after another the lodgers retired to rest.

Kathleen had sobbed herself to sleep, and Molly was growing drowsy, when she felt her father's hand move in hers. Wide awake in a moment, she turned towards him. He was leaning forward, and looking at her with such a strange, piteous look. He tried to speak, but his voice had grown so faint that she had to put her ear close to his lips in order to catch the words.

"Molly," he whispered, "promise me you will always take care of Kathleen. You are younger than she, but you are wiser than your age. She is not like you. You must watch over her. Promise me."

"I will, father. I will indeed," said Molly, tremulously, "but oh, father, why do you say this?"

He did not reply, and there was silence again.

Molly was trembling with fear, but her father's hand lay in hers, and she could not move to rouse Kathleen. After a few moments, he once more strove to speak, but she could with difficulty make out his meaning.

"Say it again," he seemed to say, and then she caught the words—"about the Son of man."

"You want me to tell you what I heard the man say?" asked Molly.

He gave a feeble sign of assent, and slowly and distinctly Molly repeated the words—

   "'The Son of man is come to seek and to save that which was lost.'"

Again his lips moved, and Molly, bending down, heard him murmur, "I'm lost—lost! Oh, if only—"

The voice died away in inarticulate mutterings. But after a time, she fancied she heard him whisper—"to seek and to save—to seek and to save."

He said no more, and the hand that she held seemed to grow cold and heavy in her grasp. Little Molly gently rubbed it between her own hands, then held it to her bosom, vainly trying to warm it, for it remained cold as ever. Her father's breathing grew more slow and irregular. But the child knew not what it meant, till at last there came a long, deep sigh, followed by utter silence.

Molly's own heart seemed to stand still in that sudden hush. For a few moments, no sound broke the stillness. Then some cinders fell with a clatter from the fire to the hearth, and Kathleen started and awoke.

"Oh, Molly, how is father?" she cried, as she rubbed her eyes and looked towards the bed. "Is he asleep?"

Yes, truly he was asleep; but it was the sleep of Death.

TWO LONELY GIRLS.

ERE many days had passed, James Macardie was laid to rest in an obscure corner of a crowded cemetery. His was a rough, parish funeral, and no one, save his two children, mourned at his grave.

Their hearts were very heavy as they turned away from the dreary spot, feeling utterly alone in the world.

"We have only each other now, Kathleen," whispered Molly, clinging close to her sister's side.

But Kathleen made no reply, and seemed hardly aware that her sister spoke. The poor girl's grief was wild and passionate. She had sobbed till she could sob no more, and her eyelids were so red and swollen that she looked quite unlike the pretty Kathleen in whom her father had taken such pride.

Molly wept more quietly, but perhaps her sorrow was even greater than her sister's. Certainly it pressed upon her heart long after Kathleen, in the excitement of her engagements at the theatre, had shaken off all signs of grief. And yet the father whom she mourned had never shown much affection for little Molly.

To neither of his children had he been a very good parent, for his indulgence of Kathleen had been as unwise as his utter neglect of little Molly. His had been a sinful, wasted life, for though he had ever considered himself an ill-used man, the truth was that his own foolish, thriftless habits had been the cause of all the want and distress which had troubled his last days. He had come to see this when health and strength were gone, and it was too late to do better. He felt then it was his own fault that his death would leave his children in such poverty.

Remorse was keen when he reflected that his darling Kathleen, the lovely child of whom he had been so proud, would be left without a friend to guard her from the perils which must surround her girlhood. Fears for Kathleen's future had distressed him as he felt his end approaching, and the promise he had gained from little Molly had but slightly calmed his dread.

The two children were indeed in a most desolate position. They had but just returned from seeing their father laid in his grave when the mistress of the house in which they lived came to tell them that she should soon want to let their room to another lodger, so they had better lose no time in getting ready to move. She reminded them that they owed her several weeks' rent, and glancing around the room obligingly named the articles of furniture she was willing to accept instead of money.

Molly and Kathleen looked at each other in dismay. Where could they find another home if they were turned out of this shelter?

"You cannot expect us to leave at once," exclaimed Kathleen, indignantly. "You will give us time to find another place, I suppose?"

"Oh! Kathleen, where can we go?" cried Molly. "Shall we have to go to a horrid place like Ivy Court, where the women are always drunk and quarrelling? Oh, dear! I wish we could stay here." And she looked wistfully round the familiar room.

"I don't want to be hard on you," said the woman, "but it's not likely I could let you have one of the best rooms in the house for the small sum you would pay. However, there's a little room higher up which I can let to you for a trifle."

And to this room the girls agreed to remove on the following day, though they were far from pleased with the look of their new home.

It was a bare, little garret, draughty and cold, with no window save a skylight. It had been empty for a long time, and dust lay thick on the floor. The window was darkened with dirt, and innumerable cobwebs hung from the ceiling.

Molly's heart sunk within her at the first sight of the room, whilst Kathleen burst into tears, and declared passionately that she would rather die than live in such a hole.

"Never mind, Kathleen," said Molly, bravely; "the room is dirty now, but it can be made clean. You go to rehearsal as usual, and I'll ask Mrs. Jones to lend me a broom, and see if I can't make the place look a little tidier by the time you come back."

"You, Molly! As if you could clean the room!" cried Kathleen. "It's a strong woman's work to make this place decent. Mrs. Jones ought to do it for us, but I suppose it's no use asking her. She's a horrid woman, and I hate her."

"There's a many worse than she," observed Molly.

"Then I hope I may never know them," said Kathleen. "However, I must be off to the theatre, or there'll be no money for us. Isn't it a good thing, Molly, that poor father let me try the dancing? You know he couldn't bear the thought of it, when Miss Evans, the actress, first named it to him. But what would become of us now if I had not this way of earning money?"

"I s'pose there are other ways," said Molly; "you might have got a place as servant somewhere."

"Servant, indeed!" returned Kathleen, with a proud toss of the head. "I think I see myself drudging as a maid-of-all-work. No; I would rather starve than do that! But I really must go, so good-bye. I wish you joy of your sweeping."

Left to herself, Molly could no longer keep back her tears. There was a sore, hopeless feeling at the child's heart.

"Oh, father, father!" she sobbed, as she stood in the middle of the cold, dismal room. "I want you so badly. How can we get on with no one to take care of us, not a single friend to help us?"

Then Molly remembered the words of the street-preacher. "I wish I knew who that great, kind Friend is who loves every one," she said to herself. "Somehow I don't believe He's a real person. If He were, I'd try to find out where He lives, and I'd go and ask Him to take care of Kathleen and me. I told father I would take care of Kathleen, but I'm such a poor little thing, I can't do much for her. However, I'll try if I can't make this place look a little better by the time she comes home."

And drying her tears, Molly set to work without loss of time.

Borrowing a broom of Mrs. Jones, she began to sweep, and soon raised a cloud of dust, which almost choked her.

Fortunately, Mrs. Jones came to the rescue, and showed her how to go to work, and how to scrub the floor when it was swept.

It was hard work for one so small, but Molly kept at it bravely, though her head and back ached, and the tears would fall as she worked. She was bent upon making the room look homelike by the time Kathleen returned.

She would scarcely have succeeded in doing so, however, had she not received unexpected help. She was toiling up the steep staircase about noon, carrying a pail of water almost as big as herself, when a cheery voice from behind cried—

"Here, little 'un, give me that. I reckon I can get it upstairs quicker than you."

And ere she could recover from her surprise, the pail was caught out of her hand, and carried to the top of the house in less than no time. It was Ned Jones, the landlady's son, who did her this good turn. He was a big, stout lad, fast growing into a man, and with a true man's heart beating beneath his fustian jacket.

Molly had often seen him as she went in and out of the house, but she had never spoken to him until this day.

"Oh, thank you!" she cried, as she came up breathless. "That's a nice help."

"So you're moving in here," he said, looking into the room; "you're a little bit of a thing to do such work as this. Is there anything I can do? Ah! Yes. I see that window wants a polish, and you can't possibly reach up to do it. Give me a cloth, and I'll give it a rub."

And he rubbed away with hearty good-will, and soon effected a great improvement in the appearance of the glass.

Then he helped Molly to carry up the bedstead from the room below, and such pieces of furniture as were too heavy for the child to lift alone. It was soon done, for there were not many things to move.

"Upon my word, the little room looks quite cosy now," Ned said, as he went away. "And I can tell you not many of the lodgers' rooms look so clean as you have made this look. You're a rare smart little girl, Molly."

"Who'd have thought he'd have been so kind?" said Molly, when he had gone. "I did not think there was any one so nice in the house. Really, he seems quite like a friend now."

Kathleen, on her return, was much surprised to see the change in the room.

"You 'are' a good little thing, Molly," she said. "However did you manage it?"

Then Molly told the story of her morning's work, and the help Ned had given her.

"I'm very glad you got it all done before I came back," said Kathleen, "for I am dreadfully tired and hungry. Is there nothing but dry bread for dinner?"

"I've got a little bit of butter for you," said Molly; "it's all there is left, and there's no money for any more. No! Don't give me any!" she cried, as her sister offered to halve it. "I would just as soon eat the bread without."

And she turned her eyes away from the butter, and cheerfully munched her dry crust.

"You do love me a little, don't you, Kathleen?" she asked presently, laying her hand softly on her sister's arm.

"Oh yes, Molly, of course," responded Kathleen, with some impatience, as she shook off her sister's hand; "you're my sister, you know, though no one would think so to look at us. We're not a bit alike."

"Oh no! We're not a bit alike!" echoed Molly, with a sigh. "Father often used to tell me so. Poor father! He was 'very' fond of you, Kathleen."

"Yes, he was," replied Kathleen, tears coming into her beautiful dark eyes. "Poor father! How shall we get on without him?"

"I wonder if father's brother Tom will ever come back to England," said little Molly; "if he did, he might take care of us."

"If he could find us," returned Kathleen; "you forget that father had heard nothing of him for years. Uncle Tom may be dead, for aught we know. But if he is alive, and ever comes back to this country, he won't know where to look for us, for we have moved from one place to another since father wrote to him. He would not think of looking for us in this wretched little street."

"No more he would," said Molly; "I did not think of that. Father said that he was making his fortune in Australia, so he would be quite a rich man, I suppose."

"Then I wish he would come back and somehow manage to find us," remarked Kathleen. "Oh, how nice it would be to be rich!"

"Do you remember mother, Kathleen?" Molly asked, after they had been silent a few minutes.

"How often you ask me that question!" returned Kathleen. "I've told you ever so many times that I have just a faint recollection of sitting on her lap when I was a little girl. I don't know whether I really remember it, or whether father told it to me."

"And she used to brush your hair, and curl it round her finger, and kiss you, and call you 'little Kathie?'" said Molly.

"Yes—there, you see, you know it already, so you need not have asked me."

"Do you think mother would ever have done so to me if she had lived?" asked little Molly, with tears in her eyes.

"Oh yes, I daresay," answered Kathleen carelessly; "only you know your hair would never curl like mine."

"No; and besides I am so ugly, and my back is all crooked," sighed Molly. "No, she could never have loved me as she loved you."

Apparently Kathleen was of the same opinion, for she did not attempt to deny the statement. Having finished her dinner, she sprang up from her chair and began to practise some dancing steps on the newly-scrubbed floor, humming a lively air the while. The action jarred on Molly's sorrowful mood. She wondered that Kathleen could dance and hum so gaily on the day following that on which their father had been buried.

In the evening, when Kathleen got ready to go to the theatre, Molly also put on her hat and cloak. During her father's illness she had always walked with her sister to the theatre, and gone later to fetch her home, and she meant to do so still.

But Kathleen raised an objection. "There's no need for you to come, Molly," she exclaimed. "I am best alone. It's absurd for a little thing like you to come out at night to keep me company."

"But father wished me to go," said Molly, "and I promised him I would always take care of you."

"'You' take care of 'me!'" cried Kathleen, scornfully. "What a ridiculous ideal! You forget I'm some years older than you. It's my place to take care of 'you,' I rather think."

"I must go, Kathleen; I promised father," persisted Molly.

"Father never meant that you were to go always," declared Kathleen; "and I don't mean to let you. It's not right for a little thing like you to be out alone in the streets by night. There's no knowing what might happen."

"No one will take any notice of me," urged Molly; "it's quite safe. I'm not like you, Kathleen."

In spite of her strong wish to the contrary, Kathleen was forced to give in, and let Molly have her way. Every evening the little girl walked beside her sister to the theatre, then returned home to spend some dreary hours in darkness and solitude, till the time came for her to go back for Kathleen. Then she made her way rapidly along the quietest streets to the theatre, and waited in some shadowed corner till her sister appeared. Seldom did any one notice the child as she slid along through the darkness or stood beneath a doorway, and such as chanced to glance at her saw something in the look of the weird, wan face and sad dark eyes, which deterred them from offering her annoyance.

THE THEATRE AND THE MISSION HALL.

MOLLY was right in thinking that Ned Jones would prove a friend. He was a strong, brave lad, having that tenderness for weaker creatures which is a mark of true manhood. The courage with which little Molly faced the trials of her lot and her devotion to her sister excited his admiration, and made him desirous of befriending her. He had a pleasant word for the little girl whenever they chanced to meet, and Molly was very grateful for his kindness, for it was a rare thing for any one to smile upon her.

One evening, happening to overtake Molly on her return from escorting Kathleen to the theatre, Ned thought he would like to give her a treat.

"I suppose you've often been to the theatre, Molly?" he said.

"I've never been inside it, if that's what you mean," was her reply.

"What, have you never seen your sister perform? I should have thought you would have gone to see her!"

"No, but I've often longed to go," said Molly; "for though Kathleen's told me about it lots of times, I would far rather see for myself what it's like. Father used to go to the theatre now and then, but he always said he could not take me."

"I tell you what, Molly," exclaimed Ned; "I'll take you there to-night, and you shall see for yourself just what it's like."

"You don't mean it!" cried Molly, her eyes sparkling with delight. "You're only making game of me."

"No, indeed, I mean it," Ned assured her. "I'm flush of money just now, and can stand you a treat. So come along, little 'un: there's no time to lose, if we would get seats." And seizing her hand, he hurried her along at a smart pace.

"Oh, how surprised Kathleen will be when she hears I've been there!" cried Molly, breathlessly, as they went along. "Now I shall see her in the beautiful dress she was trying to tell me about."

When they reached the theatre, they found a crowd gathered outside. And as soon as the doors were opened, there was such a rush for the gallery stairs that Molly might have been injured if Ned had not been there to take care of her.

But his strong arm shielded her from the rough jostling. And when she was safe up the narrow staircase, and seated in one of the front seats of the gallery, her delight was unbounded. She gazed admiringly round the large gaily-lit place. The lavish display of paint and tinsel, the gorgeous curtain, the lively music, fairly enchanted her.

The atmosphere of the crowded gallery was hot and stifling, and redolent of beer and tobacco, but the child was not aware of it. She was too absorbed in seeing and hearing to pay heed to aught beside.

Ned directed her eyes to the well-dressed people who were entering the stalls or taking possession of the boxes. Amongst them were little girls of her own age, but oh! they looked so different from poor little Molly. The child gazing down on them from the distant height of the gallery wondered what it could feel like to wear such warm bright cloaks and pretty dresses. It made her sad in the midst of her enjoyment to look at these happy children, with their soft bright hair and joyous faces, and to think of the vast difference between their life and hers.

But this sadness vanished as at length, midst shouts and clapping, the curtain slowly rose and revealed the glories beyond.

Molly forgot everything else as she watched the wonders of the play. She could not understand what it all meant, but she was charmed with the changing scenery and the brilliant dresses of the players. And when presently there appeared on the stage a young gipsy-girl, fancifully dressed, with a crimson kerchief twisted amidst her black locks, and bracelets gleaming on her bare arms as she flourished a tambourine and danced and sung, Molly failed to recognize her sister, till a whisper from Ned told her who it was. Then she watched Kathleen's performance with breathless interest.

At first she was pleased to hear the people clap and applaud. But as the loudly-whispered remarks passing around reached her ear, she blushed and wished it were not her sister upon whom they were commenting so freely.

What right had they to couple such epithets with Kathleen's name, and to speak as if she belonged to them? Molly resented their freedom of speech, and it marred her enjoyment of the remainder of the entertainment.

She was not sorry when it came to an end, and the people began to disperse.

She hurried with Ned to the side door, where, after waiting awhile, they were joined by Kathleen.

Kathleen was much surprised to learn that her little sister had been seeing the play, but she did not show such pleasure as Molly had expected.

"There, there, don't talk any more about it," she cried, cutting short Molly's eager words. "I'm so tired of the noise and glare. Oh! Yes, you think it very fine, I daresay, but if you'd seen as much of that theatre as I have, you'd be sick to death of it."

"But oh! Kathleen, you looked so lovely when you came in and danced. I did not know you at first," said Molly.

"That's a doubtful compliment," returned Kathleen, who, however, was not ill-pleased with it.

"But, Kathleen, I did not like to hear the people shout and clap and say such things about you."

"What did they say?" asked her sister, eagerly.

Then Molly repeated some of the comments which had reached her ears. But the coarse admiration which she had resented was not distasteful to Kathleen. She laughed, and said she was glad that she had pleased the folks in the gallery, for they had sometimes a very objectionable way of showing their disapproval of an actress. Her weariness seemed to vanish, and she chatted merrily all the way home.

But her mood changed when they had bidden Ned "good-night," and gained their attic.

"What a dreary place it is!" she said, as she entered the little room. "No fire, no comfort of any kind. I wonder if any one seeing me dancing and singing at the theatre could imagine that I live in such a hole as this, and that I have not a friend in the world?"

Kathleen's words made Molly very unhappy. She said nothing in reply, for she knew it would be of no use to remind Kathleen of her love—that was of small value. She wished she knew the Friend of whom the street-preacher had spoken, that she might ask Him to be good to Kathleen. Long after Kathleen had forgotten her annoyance in sound slumber, Molly lay sleepless by her side, pondering what means she could take to discover who this mighty Friend was, and how she might get near Him and speak to Him.

At last, she resolved that on the following Sunday evening, she would go into the streets and look about for the preacher, in the hope of hearing him again, and learning from his words more about the Son of man.

But she had not to wait till Sunday to hear about the Son of man. On the following evening, as she was coming alone from the theatre, she turned into a different street from the one she usually took, and found herself close to a new-looking building, about which a crowd of persons had gathered.

Curious to see what was going on, Molly quickly crossed the road, and made her way into the midst of the crowd.

The door of the building stood open, and revealed a long room, furnished with deal benches and brightly lighted by gas.

Coloured pictures could be seen hanging on the whitewashed walls, and gay banners waved over the door, giving the place a bright, cheerful look. A policeman stood on the pavement, keeping order amongst the crowd, and seeing that they stood back, so as to leave space for any who wished to pass into the room.

But at first very few ventured in, though many of the rough lads and slatternly girls whom curiosity had brought to the spot peeped in at the door.

"What's going on in that room?" Molly asked of a woman who stood near her.

"Why, bless you, that's the new mission hall!" was the response. "It's opened to-night for the first time, and there's a grand parson coming to preach."

"Who's he going to preach to?" asked Molly, wonderingly.

"Who to? Why, the people, of course: any who like to go and hear him."

"Do you mean that any one can go in? May I go?" inquired the child, with eagerness.

"Yes, of course, if you've a mind to. Don't know but what I shall go in myself, just to see what it's like, you know."

Molly's mind was quickly made up. The brightly lit room with such pretty pictures on the walls was far more attractive than the dark attic to which she was returning.

She walked to the door, and after a moment's hesitation stepped inside.

There were two or three ladies standing at the top of the room, and one of these ladies came to meet the child, and took her to a seat, and gave her a hymn-book. Molly sat down and took a good look around her. She was delighted with the pictures.

There was one hanging on the wall facing her, from which she could hardly take off her eyes. It represented a shepherd descending the slope of a mountain, with a little lamb clasped in his arms. The path along which he came was steep and rugged, and the hills lying behind him were dark with storm-clouds; but the shepherd had sought and found the little wanderer, and was carrying it safely to the fold. Tender and sweet was the look on His face, as He sheltered the weary lamb in His strong arms. There was love and pity in His glance, but no reproach nor blame. Beneath the picture were these words printed,—

   "The Son of man is come to seek and to save that which was lost."

"Ah," said Molly to herself as she read the words, "those are the very words I heard the man say in the street, and which I repeated to father. Then that must be a picture of the Son of man. I'm so glad to see it, for now I know what He is like. How good and kind He looks! I'm sure I should not be afraid to speak to Him, and ask Him to take care of me and Kathleen."

Here Molly's thoughts were diverted by the voice of the minister, who began the service by giving out a hymn. Molly looked at him earnestly. She liked the gentle, loving look, which his countenance wore, and the tones of his voice sounded pleasantly in her ears. She looked away from him to the picture, and then again at him, and fancied his face showed a marked resemblance to that of the Shepherd.

Could it be that He was the Son of man?

For a few minutes, Molly's heart beat fast with the hope that it was so. But as the service went on, there dawned on her mind a true idea of who the Son of man was.

At first, there was but a small congregation in the hall. But the sound of the singing attracted the loiterers outside, and one after another entered, so that by the time the minister began his address, the hall was quite full.

He took for his text the words,—

   "We love Him because He first loved us."

In clear, ringing tones he began to speak, and soon there was perfect silence in the hall, as simply yet forcibly, he told the old, old story of the Saviour's love. Step by step, he traced the course of the wondrous life that began in the cradle at Bethlehem, and ended on the cross at Calvary. Then he showed how that which seemed to be an ending was in truth but a beginning, for death had no power over the Son of God. He had loosed the bands of the grave and risen victorious over death, and still lived to save and to bless, now as in the days of old, the Saviour, Friend, and Brother of mankind.

As the preacher thus spoke, many hearts were thrilled by his words.

Some there were before him who had heard the truth in early life, learned it, may be, at the knee of a mother, who had long since passed from earth. And now, as the memories of childhood revived, they wept for the sin which had stained their lives since those days of innocence. Some, like little Molly, were getting their first distinct impression of the Gospel, and the tidings of such a Saviour and Friend fell on their ears with strange sweetness.

The preacher's concluding words Molly could never forget: they seemed so suited to her own case.

   "Perhaps there is some one here to-night," he said, "who is sad and lonely, some one who feels that he has no one to love him—no, not a single human friend on whom to lean for comfort and help.

   "Surely that one will be glad to hear of the Divine Friend who loved us so much that He gave His life for us. 'Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.' Yet was the Saviour's love greater, for whilst we were yet sinners—enemies—Christ died for us.

   "Oh! Lonely one, whoever you are, come to this Friend. Do not be afraid to come, however poor, or miserable, or sinful you may be. Jesus Christ knows all about your sin and misery; yet He loves you in spite of all. He knows the circumstances of your life; yes, every little detail: nothing is hidden from His eyes, and He has help and healing for you. He will bestow pardon, peace, and purity on all who trust Him. Come, then, without fear. Bring to Him your sins, your sorrows, your daily cares and anxieties. Speak to Him freely: He will hear you, for though you see Him not, He is ever near you, ever waiting to listen to your prayer.

   "Oh! Can you hold back, can you distrust His love after the mighty proof of its reality He has given? Will you not love Him who first loved you? Why should you live a lonely, friendless life, when there is such a Friend waiting to help you, waiting to take you by the hand, and lead you safely through the snares and dangers of this world, and to bring you at last to His presence in the better, world beyond?"

This was glad news for little Molly. With a child's simple confidence, she received the truth, and the thought of having such a Friend ever near to aid and bless filled her heart with joy. She need nevermore feel sad because no one loved her. Poor, ugly, deformed little creature that she was, she had a Friend in the Son of man who had died for her.

"To think He's been loving me all this while, and I never knew it," she said to herself as she stood up and in her shrill little voice joined in singing the hymn, "'Tell me the old, old story.'"

As soon as the service was over, Molly slipped out of the hall, and ran home, to think over in solitude the wonderful news she had heard.

The dark attic was not now a dreary place. The unseen Friend was there, and she no longer felt lonely. She spoke to Him in simple childish words.

   "Oh! Good Son of man," she said, "I'm a poor little girl, and I've no one but Kathleen, and father said I was to take care of her, but I can't do it properly, 'cause I'm not big enough. Oh! Please, Lord, be our Friend, and take care of us, and teach us to love Thee!"

Many times did she repeat such words as these; and as she prayed, her heart grew light and happy. She felt so sure that the Lord Jesus would be her Friend, and take care of her and Kathleen.

"Oh! How I wish father had known about the Son of man," she thought; "for then he would not have been afraid to leave Kathleen alone. He would not have asked me to take care of her, if he had known that the Lord Jesus would be our Friend."

MOLLY GAINS A TREASURE.

IF Kathleen had looked closely at her sister, when she found her that night waiting as usual at the door of the theatre, she would have noticed that her face wore a singularly happy expression. But Kathleen was not wont to pay heed to Molly's looks. She was too much taken up with herself to care for her sister.

"Molly is a good little creature in her way," Kathleen thought. But she was so very different from herself that she believed she was justified in treating her with some contempt.

Kathleen was less likely than usual to notice Molly's looks this night, since she was not alone when she came out of the theatre. She half hoped that for once she might not find Molly awaiting her, for she was ashamed that her companion should see her little sister.

As her eye fell upon the tiny hunched-up figure standing by the doorway, she actually felt cross with Molly for her deformity.

"So you are here again, Molly," she cried; "you must be more fond of the cold than I am to like to stand about on such a night as this."

Molly had certainly not enjoyed lingering in that bitter atmosphere.

The light mantle she wore was of far thinner texture than the shawl in which Kathleen was closely wrapped, and her garments were all more threadbare than those of her sister. Her father had bought clothes for Kathleen as often as she required them, and he could spare the money, but he had rarely thought it necessary to make any addition to Molly's scanty habiliments. And now he was gone, and Kathleen's money had to meet every need, there was small chance of Molly's getting any new clothing.

Kathleen's remark was therefore an unfeeling one to make to her sister as she stood trembling with cold in the keen night air.

But Molly forgot her words almost as soon as they were uttered. She was gazing in surprise at the stranger who had hold of Kathleen's arm. He was a tall, dark man, several years older than Kathleen. His features would have been handsome, were it not for the bold, bad look stamped upon them. He was well, though flashily dressed, wearing his hat jauntily poised at the side of his head, and flourishing a cane in his hand.

At the first glance, Molly distrusted and feared this man, and his words were not calculated to produce a more favourable impression.

"So this is the little sister you were talking about," he said, looking quizzingly at Molly. "Why, what a queer little object she is! She's not a bit like you."

"Oh no," said Kathleen, "we're not at all alike. She always will come to walk home with me. It is very silly of her, a little puny thing, to fancy that she can protect me."

The man laughed loudly at the novel idea, and then Molly heard him say, in an undertone, "Tell her not to come again. I'll walk home with you in future."

"It's no good telling her," Kathleen replied; "she won't keep away for my telling. Now come on, Molly; don't stand staring like that!"

Again the man laughed, and then whispered something that Molly could not catch. The child felt very uncomfortable as she walked home, keeping as close to her sister as she could. The strange man went all the way with them, and talked fast to Kathleen, though in tones too low for Molly to hear what was said.

Kathleen laughed and blushed, and seemed very excited. Molly thought she had never seen her sister look more lovely—there was such a beautiful colour in her cheeks, and her eyes sparkled so. But to-night Molly could take no pleasure in her sister's beauty.

Somehow, she could have wished Kathleen were not so pretty, when she saw how the stranger looked at her.

"Who is that man, Kathleen?" she asked, when they reached home, and at last, after a prolonged farewell, he had left them at the door.

"He is Mr. Vavasour, one of the actors at the theatre," replied her sister. "I like him so much; he's so kind to me! He says I'm one of the best dancers he has ever seen, and he thinks that if I study and take pains, I shall be a grand actress some day."

"He's a horrid-looking man!" said Molly, decidedly.

"Horrid-looking, you little silly?" returned Kathleen. "Why, he's very handsome, and quite a gentleman, I can tell you. They think a deal of him at the theatre, and his acting's splendid. I feel proud that he has promised to be my friend."

"I don't call him a gentleman," said Molly, mentally contrasting his appearance with that of the minister she had heard preach that night. "And I can tell you of a far better friend than he is likely to be."

"Don't talk like a simpleton!" retorted Kathleen. "What can you know about gentlemen, I wonder?"

Upon that, Molly began to tell her evening's experiences. But she had not said much about the meeting ere Kathleen impatiently interrupted her.

"There, that will do, Molly! I don't want to hear any more about the preaching. I've heard that sort of thing before now!"

"But, Kathleen, I want to tell you about the Lord Jesus, who will be our Friend," urged Molly.

"I don't want to hear!" retorted Kathleen. "I know already! I heard something about it years ago, when I once went to Sunday-school."

"Oh! Kathleen!" exclaimed Molly, reproachfully. "Do you mean to say you've known about the Lord Jesus all this while, and never told me?"

"I did not know you would care to hear," said Kathleen. "However, there's a book of mother's somewhere, in which you can read it all for yourself."

"Oh! Where?" cried Molly, eagerly. "Do show it me. I should so like to read it."

"I can't find it now," said her sister; "I'm tired, and want to go to bed, so stop talking, Molly, and get me some supper."

Molly did as she was bid. She was disappointed at the manner in which Kathleen had received her account of the meeting at the mission hall, and greatly surprised to find that the glad tidings she had received with joy were already known to her sister.

"Kathleen," she ventured to whisper, when they were lying down together in the darkness, "haven't you loved the Lord Jesus ever since you knew that He died for us?"

But Kathleen made no reply, and Molly wondered to think how quickly she had fallen asleep.

The next morning, when the two children had finished their breakfast of dry bread and weak coffee, and Molly had washed the cups and plates and tidied the room, she said to her sister, "Kathleen, will you find me the book you spoke of last night?"

"What book?" asked Kathleen.

"Oh, you know, that book of mother's that tells about the Lord Jesus."

"Oh! I can't find it now," returned Kathleen. "I must finish learning my new part before I go to rehearsal."

"Where is it?" asked Molly. "Can't I find it for myself?"

"Oh dear, Molly, what a tiresome little thing you are! As if you could not wait a while."

"I don't want to be troublesome," said Molly, humbly, "but I thought I should like to read whilst you were gone."

"Well, I think it's in that box under the bed," said Kathleen. "You can look for it if you like; only be careful how you turn over the things."

In a moment, Molly dived under the bed and dragged out the box. Its lock was gone, and it was kept closed by means of a cord tied tightly round it. Very quickly the little fingers unfastened the knot and threw back the lid.

The box contained nothing of value, only a few relics of the life of past years.

At the top lay the clothes her father had worn, the old greatcoat and shabby hat which he had put on for the last time on the evening when he made a vain attempt to go to the theatre to fetch Kathleen home. Tears came to Molly's eyes as she lifted the garments tenderly and laid them on one side. Below were things which had belonged to her mother—an old straw bonnet, a torn apron, a pair of well-worn slippers, some tiny frocks which Kathleen had once worn and then handed on to her sister, pretty little frocks bearing witness to the love and industry of the mother who had made them for her darling. And underneath them Molly found the baby clothes which she herself had worn, also the work of her mother's clever fingers.

"Mother made this for me," the child said to herself as she held up a tiny garment. "Ah! If she had lived, I should not have been like this."

And she glanced with disgust at the ragged frock which she had not skill to mend, and the holes which appeared in her boots.

Then with a sigh, she continued her search. There were some packets of letters and several broken-backed novels lying at the bottom of the trunk, and amongst them Molly found a small brown book, which a glance at the title-page told her was the one she sought.

Eager to begin reading, she replaced the things in the box as speedily as possible, and pushing it out of sight sat down to enjoy her book.

She opened it at the first page, but she could make nothing of the hard names which there met her eyes. Turning over a few leaves, however, she came to what she could understand, and read of some of Christ's miracles of healing. Great was her wonder and delight as she read. Once or twice she asked Kathleen to tell her a word, or explain something she could not understand.

But Kathleen sat at a distance, with her fingers in her ears, intently studying the play-book which lay on her knee, and would not listen to a word her sister had to say.

So Molly had to make out the meaning for herself, and skipping the hard passages, read only the simple narratives which she could not fail to understand.

She felt that she had found a treasure in finding that little book. After this, she used to study the Testament during her solitary hours, whilst Kathleen was absent at the theatre. She loved to read of the Saviour's miracles of love and mercy, and the page grew wet with her tears as she read of the anguish in the garden, the shameful mocking and scourging, the traitorous friend, and the death on the Cross.

It was all real to little Molly. She pictured the Saviour, looking gentle and loving, like the Shepherd in the picture at the mission hall, as He went amongst the poor and suffering to heal and to save. She wished she could have been one of the children upon whom His hand had been laid in blessing. Then she reminded herself that this same Jesus still lived, and that He loved her and Kathleen.

Many a question puzzled her sharp little mind, and she longed for some one to explain the book to her; but this truth she believed—Jesus lived and Jesus loved her. Every day she asked the unseen Friend to take care of her and her sister, and she believed that He heard her, and would watch over them.

But ere many days had gone, a cloud passed over little Molly's faith. At first it was a very small cloud raised by some words from Kathleen.

On Sunday evening Molly asked her sister if she would go with her to the service at the mission hall. Kathleen was not much inclined to go, but when Molly tried to persuade her, she consented, saying that though she did not suppose it would be very lively, it might be better than moping at home.

Molly was not a little pleased to gain Kathleen's company, and started for the mission hall with a glad heart.

But disappointment awaited her there.

Kathleen, accustomed to the gaudiness and glitter of the theatre, did not think much of the pictures which Molly admired so greatly. She scarcely cared to glance at the picture of the Shepherd with the found lamb, and was by no means charmed with the singing, as Molly had expected she would be. To Molly's regret, the preacher was not the one to whom she had before listened. He was a younger man, and his countenance, though not ill-looking, bore little resemblance to that of the Shepherd in the picture. Molly felt very disappointed at not seeing the minister whom she liked so much, and the words of this preacher did not interest her as the other's had done. She saw that Kathleen paid little attention to what he said, but yawned and fidgeted, and seemed glad when the service was over.

"How is it the minister who preached on Tuesday did not come to-night?" Molly ventured to ask of the woman who took care of the hall.

"Because he's got better folk to preach to than any that come here," was the quick rejoinder. "Why, don't you know who he is? He's the Rev. Dr. Templeton, who preaches in the large church at the corner of Albion Square, where lots of rich and fashionable people go. This mission hall is in connection with his church, and he just came on Tuesday night to start it, that was all."

"Then won't he preach here again?" asked Molly.

"No, I don't suppose he will; he's got something better to do, you see."

"Come along, Molly; what do you want to stop in this place for?" cried Kathleen, impatiently.

Molly drew a sigh as she followed her.

"Don't ask me to go there again," said Kathleen; "it's the dullest affair I ever was at in my life."

"I wish you could have heard the minister who preached on Tuesday," said Molly; "you would have liked him. It has made me so happy to think of the words he said about how Jesus loved us and died for us."

"It was very fine, I daresay," replied Kathleen, tossing her head, "but I don't believe in that sort of thing."

"But it's all true, Kathleen; it's written in mother's book."

"Well, that does not make it true, you little silly," returned Kathleen, contemptuously: "do you think that everything that's printed in a book must be true? If so, you don't know much. Why the play-books I have, and those novels I read sometimes, are all untrue, every word of them. For my part, I don't believe there's any one who loves us. It certainly does not look like it, when we are so poor and friendless."

Little Molly felt as though she had received a blow. Surely it could not be as Kathleen said? It must be true that Jesus lived and loved her.

Her heart beat fast with fear lest her precious hope should prove false. She could not answer her sister's words, nor shake off the doubt they aroused. She did not take up her book when they got home, but sat still, musing uneasily on what Kathleen had said.

When bedtime came, she whispered a prayer as she lay down to rest, but she could not feel sure that it was heard, and her safe, happy feeling was gone.

DOUBT AND DISAPPOINTMENT.

MOLLY woke the next morning feeling heavy and sad. At first she wondered what had brought such a weight upon her heart, but she quickly recollected the words Kathleen had uttered on the previous night, and the doubt which had afterwards troubled her mind.

But now, as she mused over Kathleen's words, after a night of refreshing sleep, they lost their power to distress.

"It was silly of me to be cast down by what Kathleen said," she thought, as she rose and began to dress; "what difference can it make what she thinks? It's not likely that she knows better than the minister. Besides, I'm not sure that she really meant what she said, for she often says things only for the sake of being contrary. No, no, I'll not believe but what my book is true. It must be true; no one could make up such a story."

And as she began to get breakfast ready, whilst Kathleen still lingered in bed, Molly sang softly the hymn she had heard at the mission hall, "'Tell me the old, old story.'"

"I wish you wouldn't make that noise, Molly," grumbled Kathleen, in a sleepy tone.

Molly hushed her song in a moment.

But later in the morning, when Kathleen had gone out, she sang it lustily as she went about her work.

When she had finished tidying the room, she took her book and sat down to read. There was not a shadow of doubt upon her mind as she read the sacred story. And she was so absorbed in John's account of Christ's healing the blind man that she failed to hear a tap at the door, and was quite surprised when it suddenly opened, and Ned Jones looked in upon her.

"Hulloo! Little maid!" he exclaimed. "I thought you must be out when you did not reply to my knock. What book are you reading that makes you so deaf?" And he walked to where the child sat and peeped over her shoulder. His face changed when he saw what the book was.

"Oh! That's what you're reading, is it?" he said, in a tone of contempt.

"Do you know it? Have you read it?" Molly asked eagerly.

"Not likely! I know better. And, Molly, I should have thought you had more sense than to muddle your head with that book!"

"It doesn't muddle my head, Ned. I like it, and so would you like it if you read it."

"Oh, I daresay!" he returned, in a mocking tone.

"Yes, you would like it," asserted Molly. "You should go to the mission hall and hear the preaching there. That 'd make you want to read this book."

"No, thank you!" he laughed. "That sort of gammon won't do for me. I know what their preaching is like, but I don't believe in it. It's very fine talk, no doubt, but it's not true."

"Not true!" repeated Molly; and her little face took a look of fear.

"No!" continued Ned, in a tone of defiance. "I don't believe a word of it's true. It's all very well for the rich swells to preach and pray and build mission halls for the poor, but we know it's only a dodge to keep us down, that they may trample on our rights, and do with us just as they please. You should hear my uncle talk about it—he's such a clever man my uncle is; there's no hoodwinking him. He belongs to a club which meets once a week to discuss the wrongs of the working classes, and how they should be set right. He took me to the club one night; and I can tell you it was fine to hear him talk. Oh, he's such a clever man!"

"Does your uncle say that this book is not true?" asked little Molly, gazing at Ned with an anxious, wistful look in her dark eyes.

"Bless you, yes! He calls all religion cant and humbug. He says it's very fine for the swells to talk about brotherly love and charity, and so on. But they never show any brotherly love when they grind down the poor man and let him go hungry and cold, whilst they never want for anything. Oh, it's easy to see that their pretended goodness is all a sham!"

"Oh! Ned, don't talk like that!" cried little Molly, in a tone of distress. "I know my minister is true! I'm sure he's a good, kind man, and cares for the poor!"

"Well, I daresay he's a good sort of fellow in his way. He does not mind going amongst the poor to patronise them and to preach to them. It's his business to do that. But you go to his fine church on Sunday, Molly, and go in amongst the grand ladies and gentlemen who attend there, and see what sort of a welcome you'll get."

"Oh! I wish you would not talk so!" said Molly, with tears in her eyes. "You make me very unhappy! And I was so happy before in believing that Jesus Christ would be our Friend, and take care of me and Kathleen! I thought it would be so nice to go every Sunday to the mission hall, but now you've spoilt all by what you've said."

Ned's face changed at her sorrowful words. The vain, self-confident expression vanished, and he looked uneasy.

"I'm very sorry I have made you unhappy, little Molly," he said. "I daresay religion is a good thing for women and little girls. Go on believing it, if it makes you happy."

"But I can't, after all you've said," Molly exclaimed; "what good can it do me to believe a thing that is not true? I don't want to believe it, if it's not true."

Ned felt uncomfortable, and wished his words unsaid. He was silent for a few minutes, then, forgetful of the errand on which he had come up to the attic, he nodded good-bye to Molly and went slowly down-stairs, feeling heartily ashamed of himself for having robbed a little child of the faith which made her happy.

Left to herself, Molly sat down on the floor and had a good cry. It was such a disappointment. She had a high opinion of Ned's wisdom, and Ned had said that her book was not true.

Her happy faith that the Lord Jesus loved her and watched over her was a mistake, and she was the victim of a delusion and a sham. Little Molly's experience of the world made it easy for her to believe in such deception, and she felt ashamed now to think how readily she had suffered herself to be imposed upon. She might have known better. She had heard her father speak often enough of clever hoaxes and fair words spoken to deceive. Had he not told her that she was in a bad, cruel world, where no one could be trusted, and there was no one to care for her? And when, as he lay on his death-bed, she spoke to him of the Son of man, had he not said that he wished he knew if it were true? Well, she knew now that it was not true; it was only a story, nothing more.

Such were at first her thoughts. But presently hope re-asserted itself. Was it quite certain that she was mistaken?

Why should Ned's word be more trustworthy than the minister's? Ned's uncle, clever though he was, could not know everything.

She would not, she could not, cease to trust in the Lord Jesus; she would go on believing, in spite of what Ned had said.

Thus little Molly wisely resolved, but the impression left on her mind by Ned's words was not to be shaken off. Her faith was weak and trembling after such a shock. She continued to go to the Sunday evening services, but she did not enjoy them as before. Whilst the preacher spoke of Jesus and His love, she seemed to hear Ned saying, "It's only a dodge of the rich swells to keep us down and trample on our rights." And her heart grew sick with doubt and perplexity.

How was she to find out the truth? Oh, how she wished she could again hear the minister with the gentle, loving face, which had so won her confidence that it was impossible to believe him anything but good and kind, or to doubt the truth of what he said.

One Sunday morning, Molly went out alone for a stroll. She left Kathleen in bed reading a novel. But the March day was too bright for Molly to care to remain indoors. The sun shot down such warm rays as might have deceived one into the belief that the reign of winter was over, had not the keen east wind which swept round the corners of the streets and drove the dust in clouds along the roads speedily destroyed the illusion.

Molly looked a miserable little mortal as she walked aimlessly on, keeping ever on the sunny side of the road. Her face had grown thinner and sharper during the weeks which had passed since her father's death, and the old careworn expression was even more marked than before. There was a restless, troubled look in her eyes as they glanced quickly from side to side, taking note of every object which came within their range.

Unconsciously, she had turned her steps in the direction of Albion Square, and now she saw before her a handsome church, into which a number of well-dressed persons were passing. At the same time, it flashed on her mind that she had been told that her minister, as she called him, preached in a church at the corner of Albion Square. The thought quickened her steps. She ran across the road, and, taking a position beside the church door, watched with curiosity, not unmixed with envy, the grand-looking persons who entered the building. Amongst them she saw many little girls, warmly and prettily clad, and looking very happy as, led by parent or friend, they went into church.

"How nice it must be to wear such beautiful clothes!" said Molly to herself. And then she looked at her own ragged frock and the holes in her shoes, and felt the tattered brim of her hat. How different her appearance from that of these little girls!

"If it's at all true about the Lord Jesus," thought Molly, "I guess these are the little girls He loves. 'Taint likely He can care about a poor, ragged, crooked child like me. I wish I could see the inside of that church. I'd go in, but I expect they'd turn me away if I did. I wonder if I could just creep inside the door for a minute and take a peep round without being seen? I should so like to see my minister again!"

MOLLY IN THE CHURCH PORCH.

The temptation was not to be resisted. Screening herself behind a portly old gentleman, Molly ascended the stately steps, and slipped inside the church porch.

She stood for a few moments half behind the door, trying to keep out of sight of the smart-looking pew-opener, whom she suspected would prove her enemy.

But she forgot the need of caution when she saw her minister coming in at the door. Yes, it was he; she was not mistaken. There was the same kind face, wearing such a pleasant smile as he responded to the greetings of the people about him. By his side walked a young lady, beautifully dressed in rich velvet and fur. She was remarkably pretty, but there was that in her bearing which seemed to indicate that she did not underrate the impression her charms were calculated to produce.

Little Molly was struck with this young lady's appearance. She thought she had never seen any one so lovely.

"She looks like an angel!" the child murmured to herself as she gazed admiringly at the fair young girl with her golden hair and delicate-featured face.

But, unfortunately, in her eagerness to examine more closely the young lady's beautiful dress, Molly pressed too near, and her dusty boots trod upon the flowing skirt. Alas! It was no angelic look which came to the young lady's face at that moment, but a look of anger and intense disgust, as she hastily drew her dress as far as possible from the little ragged child. She said nothing, but her expression was eloquent enough, and Molly shrunk back with a sudden painful sense of her shabby, unlovely appearance. The child's sensitive heart had received a deep wound, and that look of repulsion lingered in her memory for many a day.

It was over in a moment. The young lady swept into the church, and the minister passed to the vestry without seeing the forlorn child.

Molly stood still for a few minutes, too bewildered to move from the spot.

She was conscious of many persons passing her, some of whom regarded her with looks of surprise, as if wondering what business she had to be there.

But no one looked with pity on the poor child, or spoke a kind word to her.

"Now, then! What are you doing here?" said the pew-opener, roughly. "This is not the place for you; you'd better be off!"

The words roused Molly. She needed no second bidding to be off, but hurrying into the street, hastened in the direction of home.

But ere she had gone far, her steps flagged, and large tears dimmed her sight.

"It's just as Ned said!" she mused, sorrowfully. "Those people don't care anything about us. And I don't believe it's true about Jesus Christ. I guess Ned's uncle is right, and it's all a make-believe. I won't think any more about it, and I won't go to the mission hall again!"

A STRANGE QUESTION.

MOLLY held to her resolution, and kept away from the mission hall. Yet it was hard to do so. She would go to the door of the hall, and lingering there, listen to the singing with tears in her eyes. But when she felt drawn to go in, she thought of Ned's words, and said to herself, "No, it's all a cheat, and I won't be taken in again."

Now, on a Sunday evening, Kathleen would persuade her to take a walk, and they would wander idly through the streets, being joined, perhaps, by some of Kathleen's associates of the theatre. Then there would be much loud talking and foolish jesting, in which Molly had no heart to join. But none of the girls took notice of her, save to ridicule her odd appearance. At such times, Molly felt lonely indeed, but remembering her promise to her father, she kept close to her sister's side, and would not be driven away by her cold words or looks.

Molly was growing uneasy about Kathleen. She fancied that her sister was making friends of such persons at the theatre as her father would not have liked her to know. The strange man whom Molly instinctively dreaded often walked home with Kathleen of a night. The more Molly saw of him, the more she distrusted and feared him. It was of no use, however, for her to beg Kathleen to have nothing to say to him. Kathleen only laughed and said that he was her best friend, and quite a gentleman, and she should certainly talk with him as much as she liked.

Molly felt weak and helpless. How could she take care of Kathleen? Oh, if only it had been true about the unseen Friend!

As spring advanced, and the days grew warm, the position of the poor lonely girls did not improve. It had from the first been difficult to make the few shillings which Kathleen earned at the theatre suffice for the week's needs. Molly was a clever little manager, but Kathleen would not always entrust the money to her care. Sometimes she chose to spend it as she liked, and would invest the money that would have paid the rent in a gay ribbon or flower for herself. Then for days little Molly had to pinch and save and do with insufficient food, in order to make up for Kathleen's extravagance.

But now things grew even worse. As the winter season passed away, Kathleen was not required at the theatre so often, and her earnings were accordingly less. It was hard work to live on so little, and many a night the girls lay down to sleep feeling hungry. One after another articles taken from the box beneath their bed were carried to the pawnshop. Molly could bear her own privations with patience, but it grieved her to see her sister suffer want. Her heart ached sorely as she listened to Kathleen's complaints, and saw that she was growing pale and thin.

"If only Mr. Vavasour were here, he would help us, I know," Kathleen cried one day. "But he's away acting at the country theatres, and won't be back for ever so long."

"We can get along without his help," returned Molly, quickly. "I tell you what, Kathleen, I've been wondering if there's not some way by which 'I' can earn money."

"You earn money, indeed!" exclaimed Kathleen, scornfully. "What an idea! I should like to know how you would do it."

"I can sweep and scrub and clean boots and knives," said little Molly. "Perhaps some one might be willing to hire me for a few hours a day."

"Not very likely," was Kathleen's unkind retort. "The look of you would be enough for most folks. Who would care to have a little crook-backed thing like you for a servant?"

Molly was pained, and said no more, but she did not abandon her project.

After pondering over it for a while, she found courage to name it to Mrs. Jones.

At first, Mrs. Jones was scarcely more encouraging than Kathleen, but she promised to inquire amongst her acquaintances, and if she heard of any one needing a girl's help, to mention Molly. She kept her word, and to good purpose, for at the close of the week, she told Molly that she had found a place for her. Her sister-in-law, who kept a boarding-house in George Street, was in want of a girl who could come for a few hours in the morning to clean boots and knives. On Mrs. Jones's recommendation, she was willing to try Molly.

The child was delighted with this success, and felt quite rich when she heard that she was to be paid two shillings a week for her work.

She went to her new employment on the following Monday with a brave heart, determined, if possible, to give satisfaction. Cleaning boots and knives, running errands, and toiling up and down steep flights of stairs was hard work for the child. She often came home at noon, on the hot summer days, feeling faint and sick, and looking sadly pale and worn, but she never complained of weariness.

And Kathleen, pleased with the easier living which Molly's earnings secured, did not doubt that her sister's strength was equal to the work she undertook.

Molly saw little of the inmates of the boarding-house, for most of them were away at the time she was there. Yet with one of the boarders, she chanced to form an acquaintance. She was sent one morning with a pair of boots to the room occupied by Madame Ganelli, a professional singer residing in the house.

Molly tapped, as directed, at this lady's door, but the sound of her gentle knock was lost in the flood of melody coming from the room. Molly, who loved nothing better than to hear singing, stood still to listen. Never before had she heard such music as this; the singing at the mission hall was nothing compared with it. The child was as one spell-bound, as the full, rich notes of an Italian melody, sung by a fine and well-trained voice, fell on her ears.

The door before her was ajar, and moved by an irresistible longing to see the singer who could pour forth such a strain, Molly pushed it a little further open, and peeped into the room. The scone which met her gaze was somewhat disappointing.

A more untidy room could hardly be. The bed was unmade, a tray bearing remnants of breakfast stood on a side table, and various articles of attire lay about the apartment just where the wearer had tossed them on the previous night. Serene, in spite of the disorder around her, the singer sat at a piano, littered with sheets of music. She was a woman who had seen more than thirty years, and looked her full age at this hour, as clad at her ease in dressing-gown and slippers, she practised her singing.

Her face was thin and sallow, but it was not without beauty, and the gentle, melancholy expression it wore at this moment attracted little Molly.

The child knew she had no right to linger at the door, but it was hard to turn away from such thrilling music.

While she stood hesitating, the Italian song came to an end. And after a few moments, the powerful voice broke forth in a new strain. This time the words were English, and such as startled Molly.

   "'I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that He shall stand at the latter day upon the earth.'"

Molly's heart beat fast as she listened.

She could not be deceived as to the meaning of the words.

It must be Jesus Christ of whom the singer sang, for had she not heard one of the preachers at the mission hall speak of Him as the Redeemer? In her eagerness, she pressed closer to the open door.

Everything was forgotten save the thrilling song, "'I know that my Redeemer liveth.'"

At first, the notes were low and uncertain, but the singer repeated them again and again with growing power, till presently the words swelled forth in a strain which seemed to breathe triumphant faith.

Little Molly could not doubt that the singer felt the significance of the words she sang. The child's heart bounded with hope. Here, then, was one who firmly believed in the Lord Jesus Christ. Oh! She must speak to her; she must ask her how it was she was so sure that the Redeemer lived? And without waiting to consider the wisdom of her impulse, Molly made three steps into the room, and startled the performer by exclaiming,—

"Please, lady, how is it you know that the Redeemer lives? Oh! I wish you would tell me, for I do so want to be sure about the Lord Jesus!"

With a start of amazement, the lady turned, and looked with astonished eyes on the strange little mortal addressing her. "Who are you, child?" she exclaimed. "And what did you say to me?"

"I'm Molly, please, ma'am," replied the child, trembling as she became conscious of the boldness of her action. "Molly Macardie, what cleans the boots and knives. I came to bring you your boots, and I heard you singing, and I wanted to ask you how you know that the Redeemer lives, for I do so want to be certain that the Lord Jesus lives and loves us."

The lady made no reply. Her face grew very red, and she turned round quickly to the piano.

Molly thought the lady must be angry with her for her unceremonious entrance.

"Please, ma'am," she said humbly, "I know I ought not to have come into your room so sudden-like, without knocking. I promise you I'll never do it again if only you'll tell me about the Lord Jesus."

The lady turned round again, and once more surveyed the little deformed child. But she could scarcely bear to meet the earnest gaze of Molly's wistful dark eyes; they seemed to read her very soul.

"You have come to the wrong person, child," she said, speaking not unkindly; "I know little of the One you name."

"But you were singing about Him," urged little Molly. "'I know that my Redeemer liveth'—I heard the words as plain as could be."

"I dare say you did," returned the singer, "but I don't often think of the meaning of the words I sing; and this sort of music is not much in my line. I am only practising it to-day, because I've promised to take part in a concert to-morrow, in place of a friend of mine, who is ill."

Molly gazed at her with a face expressive of the deepest disappointment.

"Come, child, don't look so sorry," said the lady, touched with pity; "have you no father nor mother, who can teach you what you want to know?"

"Father and mother are both dead," replied Molly; "I've no one but Kathleen to teach me anything, and Kathleen says she don't believe it's true about the Lord Jesus."

"And who is Kathleen?" asked the lady.

"Kathleen's my sister," said Molly, proudly. "But you mustn't think she's like me," she made haste to add. "She's as different as can be. Kathleen is tall and straight, and her face is so pretty. No one would take us for sisters."

"Is she older than you?"

"Oh yes; she is fifteen, and acts at a theatre. I saw her acting once, and I can tell you it was grand. But although I'm younger than Kathleen, father told me that I was to take care of her. I always go to the theatre every night to bring her home, because father did not like her to walk through the streets alone."

"Poor girl!" sighed the singer, involuntarily. "Has she no one but you to protect her? And you say that she is pretty, too. Ah! Poor girl!"

"No, there's no one but me to take care of her," replied Molly; "and I'm such a poor little thing. That's why I was glad to hear at the mission hall about the Lord Jesus. I thought He would be our Friend, and watch over us. But Ned Jones says it's not true about Him, only a make-believe. So now I don't go to the mission hall, for I don't want to hear about Him, if it's not true. I thought you'd be able to tell me, ma'am, when I heard you sing. But I must go now. I'm sorry I disturbed you."

And with a sigh, Molly turned to the door.

"Stay, little girl," cried the lady, suddenly, "come here and listen to what I have to say. I can't tell you much about these things, for I'm not at all good myself, but I do know one thing. I know that it 'is' true about the Lord Jesus."

"Oh, is it really? Please tell me how you know!" cried Molly, eagerly.

"I know it, Molly, because I had a good father," said the lady, and her voice quivered as she spoke; "and my father loved and served the Lord Jesus. Oh, when I remember my father's holy life, I 'know' that it's all true!"

"But don't you love the Lord, too?" asked Molly, with a look of wonder on her face.

"You wouldn't ask that, child, if you knew how wicked I am," replied the singer, rising suddenly from the piano and walking to the other side of the room. "I'm so bad that I scarcely dared to take those sacred words into my lips. Often have I tried to persuade myself that the Bible was not true—that there was no God, and no hereafter. I should have been glad to deny it all. But it was of no use. I could not help believing. Something within my heart always said that it was true."

There were tears in her eyes as she spoke, but she would not give way to emotion. Dashing away her tears, and turning again to the child, she said, brusquely: "You must go now, child. I've no more time for talking. I advise you to go again to the mission hall, and hear what the minister says, for it's all true, depend upon it."

Molly's face brightened at these words. She stepped to the door, but paused with her hand on the latch. The child felt drawn to this lady, who had spoken to her so kindly. She had seen the tears in her eyes, and she longed to comfort her.

"What will 'you' do, ma'am?" she asked, timidly. "Don't 'you' want to go to the mission hall, and hear about the Lord Jesus?"

The warm colour came back to the lady's face, but she responded quickly: "No, child, no: my day for that sort of thing has gone by. Now run away. You may come and see me again some day, but I cannot talk to you longer now."

MOLLY HAS A TALK WITH HER MINISTER.

THE singer's advice was not thrown away upon Molly, for that very evening she went to the mission hall. Special services were being held there every night of this week. Molly had longed to go to these services, but the recollection of Ned's words, and the resolution she had formed on that Sunday morning when sorely wounded in spirit she had turned away from the grand church in Albion Square, had sufficed to keep her away.

Now, however, she went with a hopeful heart. Not that she could at once cast away her doubts. Her nature differed from that of most children. The mind which dwelt in that tiny, stunted form was far too old for its years, and this anxious, questioning mind was not to be satisfied with a mere word.

Yet it was a great thing to have heard a grown-up woman declare so positively that it was true that the Saviour lived, even whilst it appeared that she did not love the Lord of whose existence she was certain. The singer's declaration was a powerful antidote to those words of Ned, which had so shaken Molly's mind.

So Molly went to the mission hall, prepared to pay earnest heed to the words that were spoken there. Great was her joy when she perceived that the preacher this night was none other than "her" minister. Again she looked upon his pleasant face, and traced its resemblance to that of the Good Shepherd in the picture, and again she listened with rapt attention to his thrilling words, as he told the old, old story of the Saviour's love.

The weather all day had been close and sultry, and in the narrow streets and crowded homes of the neighbourhood the heat was well-nigh stifling. As evening fell, a tempest broke over the city, and the preacher's concluding words were lost in a crash of thunder.

The hall had grown dark in the gathering gloom, but now it was fitfully illuminated by the lightning's gleams. Awe and terror fell upon the assembled people.

They looked at one another in consternation. Some women screamed, and those whose homes were nearest, hastened from the hall. The minister tried to calm their fears by a few assuring words, and then with a brief prayer brought the service to an end.

There followed a scene of confusion. For a time the storm was so severe that few ventured to quit the hall. The minister left his desk, and coming into the midst of the frightened people talked cheeringly to them.

Molly crept near to him, and looked up in his face. She had no fear of the storm. It pleased her to listen to the mighty roar of the thunder, and to have her eyes dazzled by the fiery lightning. She was glad of this opportunity of looking more closely upon her minister, and hearing more words from his lips. She would have liked to speak to him, but was too shy to make any effort to attract his notice.

Whilst she waited, the fury of the storm gradually abated, and in spite of the torrents of rain which fell, the congregation soon dispersed. Molly went to the door, but there she lingered. It was not fear of the rain which kept her there. She was too used to getting wet through as she went about the streets to think much of that.

She stood on the step with the droppings from the roof falling upon her, and tried to gather courage to speak to the minister as he came out. He looked so kind and good, she need not fear to address him, she thought.

Peeping round the door-post, Molly watched him as he stood saying a few words to the woman who took care of the hall. Her heart beat fast as she heard him bid the woman good-night, and saw him coming towards the door; but desire made her bold.

The minister was looking so intently at the clouds that he did not observe the little figure standing on the step. Umbrella in hand, he was debating whether he should venture into the rain or wait till the shower was over, when he was surprised by the touch of a cold little hand, and a shrill voice, trembling with eagerness, said:

"Please, sir, how do you know that it's all real true?"

He turned and saw by his side a tiny child, clad in thin and ragged garments. His heart was touched with pity as he noted the weak, deformed little body, and met the earnest gaze of Molly's sad, dark eyes, looking unnaturally large and brilliant, in contrast to the wee, wasted face in which they were set.

"Who are you, my child?" he asked gently. "And what do you want with me?"

"I'm Molly Macardie," she answered simply, "and I want to know if it's all real true about Jesus Christ, and if He does really love us and care for us, as you say."

"All real true about Jesus Christ!" repeated the minister, wonderingly. "Assuredly it is, my child. Who has been telling you otherwise?"

"Ned Jones says it's nothing but a make-believe," asserted Molly; "and Kathleen, my sister, says she don't believe there's any one loves us, as you say Jesus does. I was so sorry to hear them say such things, because I liked to think about Jesus, and to come here and hear about Him."

"I see," said the minister kindly, as he drew her inside the hall; "so you want me to tell you how I know it to be true about the Lord Jesus?"

"Yes, that's it, sir," said Molly, eagerly; "I knew you could tell me, and you looked so kind and good, just like the Son of man in the picture, that I thought I wouldn't be afraid to ask you."

"Not like the Son of man, child," returned the minister, with a sigh, as his eyes followed the direction of hers, and rested on the picture of the Good Shepherd. "I'm far from being that. But now tell me more about yourself, Molly, that I may know how I can best help you. Who is this Ned Jones?"

And sitting down, and giving the child a seat near him, he drew from her the story of her strange little life. Molly's shyness vanished before his kind manner, and she told him freely all about herself. She talked to him of the lovely sister whose sole guardian she was, and of the father who on his death-bed had begged her to take care of that sister.

Tears dimmed the minister's eyes as he listened to her artless words. And when he spoke, his voice was full of pity. "And have you no one to take care of you, my poor child; not a single friend to show you kindness?"

"Mrs. Jones is kind in her way," said Molly, "but Kathleen says we must not trust too much to her, for she'd turn us away to-morrow if we could not pay the rent. We've no one else to look after us. That is why I was so glad to hear that the Lord Jesus would be our Friend, and watch over us."

"And He will be; He is your Friend," said the minister, solemnly. "He does watch over you. Do not doubt it, little Molly."

The child's face brightened, but there was still a questioning look in her eyes.

"You want me to tell you how I know that it is so," said the minister, anticipating her question. "Well, the best proof I can give you is that drawn from my own experience. I know that Jesus lives, because I have found Him my Friend and Saviour. You see that picture, Molly, of the Shepherd with the lamb in His arms?"

"Yes," said Molly, as her eyes sought it.

"That lamb had wandered from the fold. It was lost on the dark mountains amidst slippery slopes and dangerous precipices, and must have perished, had not the Shepherd gone forth into the darkness to seek it, and never rested till He had it in His arms. Molly, I was once lost like that lamb."

"You?" repeated Molly, in amazement. "You lost like that lamb?"

"Yes," said the minister slowly; "when I was young, I went astray like a lost sheep. I wandered far, far from God. I was lost in the darkness, living without God and without hope in the world. But the Good Shepherd would not leave me thus. He sought me and brought me home. I found in Jesus a Saviour and a Friend, and His love has never failed me yet. I have been too ready to leave His side, but He has never forsaken me—never. So now, Molly, knowing what a friend Jesus has been to me, I am not afraid to tell you to trust Him."

"But are you sure He will be my Friend?" asked the child, anxiously. "I daresay He loves you, and the pretty, smart little girls, but I don't see that He can care for an ugly, crooked little thing like me."

The minister smiled sadly as he replied: "He does love you, Molly. There is no respect of persons with Him. Tell me, my child, do you think that your mother, if she had lived, would have loved you the less on account of your weakness?"

"Why, yes," replied Molly, promptly; "of course I do. It ain't possible that she could have loved me as she loved Kathleen."

"Ah! Child, you do not know a mother's heart," said the minister. "A true mother bestows her tenderest love and care on her most feeble child. I believe, Molly, that your weakness would have secured you the first place in your mother's heart. But I am sure of this—that the Lord Jesus only loves you the more because you are lonely and weak.

   "'He gathers the lambs in His arms, and carries them in His bosom.'"

"Oh, I am so glad!" cried Molly, clasping her hands in delight. "I'm so glad that Jesus loves me! I'm so glad that you say it's all real true. I won't mind anything that Ned Jones says again!"

"Yes, yes, it's all true," said the minister; "and the Lord Himself will teach you so, if you let Him. You cannot be sure of His love unless you come to Him and give Him the trust of your heart. The Shepherd could not save the lamb if it persisted in keeping away from Him, and no one can know the Lord by merely looking at Him from a distance, or judging Him by those who call themselves His friends. You must pray to Him, little Molly, and look to Him every day for guidance and strength, and He will help you and bless you!"

"I 'will' pray to Him," said Molly. "I will ask Him every day to take care of me and Kathleen, and to make us good!"

"I will tell you a little prayer you may use if ever again you feel inclined to doubt the Lord's goodness because of anything others may say to you. It was uttered by one who came to Jesus when He was on earth—a poor man who longed to believe, yet could not as he would.

   "'Lord, I believe; help Thou my unbelief,'

"he said; and the Lord heard his cry and had mercy on him. Can you remember the words?"

"'Lord, I believe; help Thou my unbelief,'" repeated Molly.

"Make that your prayer, my dear child, if ever again you find it hard to believe that it's all true about the Lord Jesus. And now you must run home, for it is getting late—too late for a child like you to be in the streets. Tell me where you live, and I will come and see you and your sister."

Molly readily described the street in which she lived, then, bidding the minister good-night, she hastened away with a light heart, not turning homewards, as he supposed, but taking her way through the wet streets to the theatre, where she would meet her sister.

The minister watched her with a look of pity as she ran through the rain, to which her thin garments could offer but slight resistance.

He had a little daughter at home of the same age as Molly, and the thought of his bright-eyed, rosy-checked Nelly made his heart very tender towards this poor desolate child.

THE REST OF FAITH.

LITTLE MOLLY was a happier child after she had had that talk with the minister. Not that her life was any easier.

She had still to work so hard that her little bones ached so much that sometimes she could scarcely sleep at night for the pain. She had still to bear fretful words and bursts of temper from Kathleen, who reserved her bright looks and pleasant words for her companions at the theatre, and seldom spoke kindly to Molly.

But Molly knew now that Jesus loved her. Every day and many times in the day she prayed to the Saviour, and she was sure that He heard her. She began to read her Testament once more with renewed delight. The Holy Spirit taught her the meaning of what she read, and gave her such a sense of the grace and love of the Lord Jesus as filled her young soul with a light which no shadow of doubt could dispel.

"You and your uncle, clever though he is, are both wrong in saying this book is not true," she said to Ned Jones, one day. "I have had a talk with the minister, and he has made me know that it is true. I am sure now that the Lord Jesus loves me and Kathleen, and will take care of us. And oh! It makes me so happy!"

And Ned Jones, as he saw the glad light which shone in the child's eyes, had not a word to say in reply. His faith in his uncle's wisdom was shaken. Might not little Molly be right, after all?

There came to his mind some words he had heard, he knew not where; they were these:

   "Thou hast hid these things from the wise and prudent, and hast revealed them unto babes."

Ned was resolved he would never breathe another word of doubt to little Molly.

The minister's promise to visit her was not forgotten by Molly. Day by day she looked for his coming, and every spare moment was devoted to making the tiny attic look as clean as possible for his reception.

Kathleen laughed to see how Molly scrubbed and polished, yet even Kathleen was excited at the prospect of the gentleman's visit. It was such a new thing for any one to take an interest in them. Molly's great fear was lest the minister should come when she was away from home. Every day, when she returned from her morning's toil, she questioned Mrs. Jones as to whether a gentleman had been there.

But Mrs. Jones constantly returned the same answer. And as day after day went by and the minister did not come, Molly began to fear disappointment.

The fear deepened as days grew into weeks, and weeks into months, and yet he did not come. And as the hope of his coming died out of Molly's heart, her disappointment was keen.

"I don't believe he ever meant to come," said Kathleen, contemptuously.

But Molly could not believe this, though her heart was very sore at his non-fulfilment of his promise.

It was a pity she could not know why he had failed to come. When the minister reached his home that evening, after parting with little Molly at the mission hall, he found trouble awaiting him there. His little Nelly had suddenly been taken ill. There was a physician in attendance, whose grave demeanour bespoke the presence of danger. Hours passed on, and the child grew no better.

The drear words, "No hope!" were spoken. And after lingering in suffering for two or three days, the young spirit passed to the home above.

No wonder that in days of such anxiety and sorrow, Molly should be forgotten.

When at length the minister thought of her, he could not remember the name of the street in which the child had said she lived.

There was no time then to seek her. The summer season had worn to its close, and all well-to-do people were hastening to escape from the dust and glare of London to the bracing breezes which blow by the sea-shore.

It was desirable that he should, without delay, take his sorrowing wife and children to seek the soothing influences of fresh air and change of scene. So, reluctantly, the minister was forced to postpone his promised visit to little Molly. And, commending her to the care of the Good Shepherd, he went away.

Molly's friend, Madame Ganelli, was also out of town at this time, and many weeks passed ere she again saw her. Then one day, soon after her return to London, the singer called Molly to her room, and showed her a discarded dress, which she intended to convert into a frock for the child.

Molly was not a little delighted at the prospect of having a new frock in place of the shabby one she wore, and she thanked the lady heartily for her kindness.

Their talk was all about the dress, till just as Molly was going away, the lady said, "Well, how about the mission hall? Have you been there again?"

"Oh yes!" cried Molly, her face lighting up. "Oh yes and I spoke to the minister, and he was so kind. I am quite, quite sure now that it's all real true about the Lord Jesus. He loves me and Kathleen, and you, ma'am, and everybody!"

"Does He love me, Molly?" said the lady in a low tone, turning away her face as she spoke. "I'm not so sure of that."

"But it's true—real true!" declared Molly. "Do you think your mother loved you, ma'am?" she asked, after a moment's silence.

Madame Ganelli started at the question.

"Do I think my mother loved me?" she repeated, in a tone which vibrated with quick emotion. "Ay, that she did! Would that she had not loved me so well! It was love for me that broke her heart!"

"I've heard the minister say that Jesus loves us better than even a mother could," said little Molly. "He died for us because He loved us so!"

"I wish I could feel sure that He loves me," said the singer, "but I am so wicked, and I've led such a bad life!"

"He'll make you good if you ask Him," said Molly, confidently.

"Will you ask Him for me, child?" said the lady. "When you pray for yourself and Kathleen, will you pray for me, too?"

Molly nodded.

"I'll be sure to," she said. "But oh! ma'am, won't you ask Him yourself? He'll hear you if you speak ever so low."

But Madame Ganelli made no reply. And thinking she had stayed too long, Molly went down-stairs.

KATHLEEN IS A SOURCE OF GRAVE ANXIETY.

THE autumn months proved wet and dreary. Winter with its sharp frosts and chilling mists set in early, and Molly was thankful for the warm frock which her kind friend had provided for her.

Kathleen was now fully engaged at the theatre. But Molly reaped small advantage from her increased earnings, for her sister loved to squander her money in useless finery.

Little Molly was growing more and more uneasy on her sister's account. She scarcely knew what it was that she feared, but she had a vague notion that Kathleen's character was suffering from her connection with the theatre, and the associates she found there. It was in vain Molly tried to speak of the Saviour to Kathleen. She only laughed at Molly's "pious" ways, and refused to hear a word of what she called "cant."

How could Molly guard her sister from evil? There was one way, and only one way, in which she could help Kathleen.

She was weak and helpless, but the unseen Friend was strong and mighty. Surely Jesus would take care of Kathleen; and in faith that He would, the child daily confided her sister to the Saviour's care.

Kathleen had no idea of the anxiety with which Molly's heart was burdened on her account. She was in excellent spirits at this time, cherishing bright though delusive visions of a happy future.

Once or twice she dropped hints of a delightful secret which Molly did not share, and seemed ever in a flutter of excitement and gaiety. Molly wondered at her sister's manner, and could not understand it. But at last, its meaning was explained.

"Look, Molly!" cried Kathleen, in a joyous tone one night, when they had come back from the theatre, and had just parted from Mr. Vavasour—"Look here!" And she held up to view a beautiful pair of pearl earrings.

"Oh, Kathleen, what pretty things!" cried Molly, in surprise. "Where did you get them?"

"I neither found them nor stole them," returned her sister, triumphantly. "Mr. Vavasour gave them to me. Isn't he kind?"

"They are very pretty," said Molly. Yet somehow she did not like them so well, when she heard who had given them.

"How do they look?" asked Kathleen, as she fitted them into her ears, which had long been bare of such ornaments.

Molly was forced to confess that they looked very grand indeed.

"Ain't they splendid?" exclaimed Kathleen, as she peered into the little cracked looking-glass, which was the only mirror the sisters could boast. "Oh, Molly, wouldn't it be nice to be a rich lady, and have money to buy lots of lovely things?"

"Yes; I'd like to be a lady," said little Molly. "I know what I'd do if I were rich," she added, softly; "I'd find out all the poor little girls that hadn't no fathers nor mothers to take care of them, and I'd give them warm clothes to wear, and nice things to eat and drink, and I'd be ever so good to them."

"But wouldn't you like to buy yourself silk frocks and laces and feathers?" asked Kathleen.

"I don't know," replied Molly; "all the gay clothes in the world wouldn't make much difference to my looks, I guess; so it wouldn't be any use my buying them, you see."

"But I should look well in them," cried Kathleen; "and I can tell you, Molly, I mean to be a lady some day, and that before very long."

"'You' a lady!" exclaimed Molly, opening her eyes wide. "What do you mean, Kathleen?"

"I will tell you," said Kathleen. "I've wanted to tell you for days, but I didn't like. Now, Molly, you must not cry or make a fuss. I'm going to leave you."

Molly could not believe her ears.

"To leave me!" she exclaimed, in amazement. "How? When? I don't understand."

"I am going to leave you to-morrow," returned her sister, with cruel distinctness. "I am going away to learn to be a first-rate actress. There's a fine time before me. I shall be quite a lady, and wear pretty dresses, and have plenty of nice things to eat and drink. Mr. Vavasour has arranged it all; he's so good to me, is Mr. Vavasour. He has set his heart on seeing me a splendid actress. What is the matter, Molly? Why do you look like that?"

Molly's face had grown very pale, and there was a look in her eyes which Kathleen could not bear to see.

"Oh, Kathleen, you cannot mean it?" she exclaimed, coming close to her sister and clasping her tightly, as though she would never let her go. "You cannot mean to go and leave me—me, Molly, your little sister, who has no one else to love her? Oh, Kathleen, you cannot do it!"

"But, Molly, it is for my good, and for your good, too, in the end," said Kathleen. "Think what a fine thing it is for me. I shall learn to be a splendid actress, and then I shall earn heaps of money. And I am not going away from you altogether. I shall come and see you sometimes, and bring you some of the money I earn. Mr. Vavasour kept saying what a good thing it would be for you as well as for me. You would not have me give up such a fine chance, surely?"

"Not if it was really for your good," said Molly, tremulously; "but oh, Kathleen, I can't believe it. I don't like that Mr. Vavasour: he looks a horrid bad man. I wouldn't trust what he says, if I were you."

"Nonsense, Molly, what can you know of him?" was Kathleen's quick retort. "I can tell you he is a good friend to me."

"Do you think father would have liked you to make a friend of Mr. Vavasour?" asked Molly.

"I don't know," replied Kathleen. But her heightened colour seemed to show that she did know.

"Oh, I'm sure father would not have liked it," said Molly, earnestly; "and he would not have liked you to leave me. He said I was always to take care of you; and how can I take care of you if you go away?"

"Don't talk rubbish!" returned Kathleen. "I'm quite old enough now to take care of myself."

"But what shall I do all alone?" urged Molly. "Won't you think of that, Kathleen?"

"You'll manage well enough," said her sister, looking away from Molly as she uttered the unkind words.

Molly's heart failed her, and she burst into tears.

"Now, don't cry like that!" exclaimed Kathleen, in a tone which betrayed some emotion. "It's all settled, and can't be altered, so it's of no use to make a fuss. I don't like leaving you, but there's no help for it. I asked Mr. Vavasour if I could not take you with me, but he said that was impossible. I'll come and see you as often as ever I can, and bring you lots of nice things; so cheer up."

But Molly could not cheer up. How could she bear to think of Kathleen's leaving her? What would life be worth to her without Kathleen? She could not picture to herself the desolation that would follow.

Her tears fell fast, till Kathleen, weary of seeing her weep, proposed that they should go to bed. They slowly undressed, and lay down side by side; both with heavy hearts, for Kathleen felt many gloomy forebodings, in spite of the bright anticipations she had professed.

Then, in the darkness, Molly confided her sorrow to the unseen Friend, trying to believe that He would help her in this sore trouble. It seemed as if everything were going wrong; yet surely He could set all right. But would He?

   "'Lord, I believe: help Thou my unbelief,'" prayed little Molly.

Comfort came with prayer. The load which pressed upon her heart was lightened: she ceased to sob, and was fast forgetting her sorrow in sleep, when she felt Kathleen's arm softly stealing around her.

"Molly," Kathleen whispered, "I'm real sorry to leave you, but it can't be helped now. You've been a good little sister to me, and I love you; I do indeed, for all I've so often been cross with you. Kiss me, Molly."

Molly turned in a moment, and throwing her arms about her sister's neck kissed her again and again. Then nestling close together, the two poor children fell asleep.

A SISTER'S DANGER.

"NOW, Molly, remember you are not to meet me at the theatre to-night. There's no need, as I shall not be coming back here again," said Kathleen to her sister the next morning. She spoke sharply. The emotion she had shown on the previous night was no longer visible in word or look.

Molly was about to set off for her morning's work at the boarding-house. She started at her sister's words, and turned towards her with a beseeching look:

"Oh, Kathleen, let me come," she pleaded; "you know I promised father."

"No, you must not come. I will not have you come. Do you understand?"

"Yes, but oh, Kathleen! I 'must' come. I cannot stay away."

"How tiresome you are Molly!" exclaimed Kathleen, and in sudden anger she raised her hand and struck Molly in the face.

Molly shrunk back—her face crimson, her heart throbbing.

Never would Kathleen forget the look of pain and reproach with which her little sister quitted the room and went off to her work.

That look haunted Kathleen during the rest of the day. For the first time, it struck her how pale and thin Molly had looked of late. A small sickly child she had ever been, but surely she had not before looked so ill as she now did? A pang of compunction visited Kathleen, as she reflected how completely she had failed to cherish her little sister.

Molly went about her work that morning with an aching heart. The recollection of Kathleen's loving words as she bade her good-night, made it easy for her to forgive the hasty blow. But the thought of the coming separation and her fears for her sister's future rendered her most unhappy.

Madame Ganelli, meeting the child on the stairs, was struck with the woebegone expression of her little face.

"Why, what is the matter with you, Molly?" she exclaimed. "You look as if you were suffering all the woes of the world. And what is the meaning of that red mark on your forehead? Have you had a fall?"

Thus questioned, Molly could only cry.

Madame Ganelli saw that something had gone seriously wrong with her little friend.

"Come in here, child," she said, opening the door of her own room; "come in here, and tell me quietly what it is that troubles you."

For some minutes Molly's sobs prevented her from speaking. But at last, growing calmer, she was able to explain Kathleen's intention of leaving her, and the distress it gave her.

Madame Ganelli listened in silence till Molly mentioned Mr. Vavasour's name. At the sound of that name, the lady started and turned pale.

"Vavasour, did you say!" she exclaimed. "Tell me, do you mean the man acting under that name at the S— Theatre?"

Molly nodded.

"Oh dear! Oh dear!" cried the singer, greatly agitated. "You must not let your sister have anything to say to that man, you must not indeed, my child! I know him well; he is a bad, unprincipled man!"

"I knew it!" cried Molly. "I was sure that he was bad, but Kathleen would not listen to me. Oh! What shall I do?"

"You must save her from that man at whatever cost!" said Madame Ganelli, solemnly. "Beseech her, as she values her own soul, to shun his friendship. Do not let her out of your sight, Molly; and if he should persist in annoying her, just name me to him, and see what effect that will have. I would go with you to the theatre and confront him, but I am obliged to sing at a concert to-night; and even now I have an engagement for which I shall be too late if I stay another moment. But oh, Molly! Pay heed to my words—you must save your sister from that man!"

"I will! I will!" cried Molly, earnestly, as the lady hastened away.

Trembling and frightened, Molly went back to her work. It was hard to do it with such anxiety and fear working in her heart. But she prayed to the unseen Friend, and He gave her the strength she needed.

She was thankful when the hour of dismissal came, and she was free to run home. It was a cold, cheerless day, but Molly ran home so fast that she was hot and breathless when she reached the house. Hurrying up the stairs, she opened the door of the attic, only to find, to her surprise, that Kathleen was not there.

"She will be in soon," thought Molly, though her heart sunk within her.

She began to prepare dinner, but she might have spared herself the trouble, for the dinner-hour came and went, and time passed on, yet Kathleen did not come. Fearing further reproaches and pleadings from Molly, she chose to walk about the streets, and make her dinner of a hot pie, rather than face her sister.

Her absence made Molly very uneasy. Too heart-sick to eat, she sat and waited, growing faint and weary and more and more anxious as the hours went on. She would have gone out to seek her sister, but feared to miss her by so doing, and she wished to lose no time in warning Kathleen against Mr. Vavasour.

After a while, Molly went to Mrs. Jones, and asked if she could tell her at what hour Kathleen had gone out, and whether she had left any message. But Mrs. Jones knew nothing of Kathleen's movements. She had not seen the girl all day.

So, with growing anxiety, Molly went back to her lonely attic.

She must save her sister, Madame Ganelli had said, but how was she to do it? She did not even know where Kathleen was at this hour. Oh! She would do anything, anything to save Kathleen from evil, but it seemed beyond her power.

There was One, however, who could help her. Surely the Lord Jesus would save Kathleen. He knew where she was. His eye was upon her. He could defend her from harm. And, falling on her knees, Molly entreated the Lord to have pity upon Kathleen!

KATHLEEN IS SAVED.

DAY faded into night, but Kathleen did not come. It grew so late that Molly, feeling certain that her sister could not intend to return home before going to the theatre, resolved to go thither in search of her.

She put on her cloak and hat and went down-stairs. An icy wind, laden with tiny snowflakes, blew in her face as she opened the house door. It was a dreary night. Already the pavements were white, and the gloomy sky, without a star, threatened more snow.

But Molly was not to be deterred by the weather. She hurried along, bravely struggling with the fierce wind, which took away her breath, and drove her backwards.

Once she slipped and fell, but scarce conscious of her bruises, picked herself up, and hurried on. She reached the theatre at last, but looked in vain for Kathleen, who was already within the building. As she stood at the side door, she asked some of the players who passed her if she might see her sister for a few minutes before the play began. But they said they did not know, and advised her to wait or to come again when the theatre closed.

Molly would not go away, lest she should miss some chance of saving her sister.

It was painful waiting in that bitter cold. The child's limbs grew numb, and to warm them she began to walk to and fro in front of the theatre. On such a rough night, the playgoers were few. But Molly saw some carriages drive up, and their occupants, warmly muffled, alight, and hurry into the theatre. Amongst these was a young lady with whose appearance Molly was particularly struck. She was a dark handsome girl, whose bright face bore a strong resemblance to Kathleen's.

She wore elegant and costly attire, such as Kathleen coveted, and was accompanied by a gentleman who was evidently her father.

Molly noted the loving care with which he helped his daughter from the carriage, and took her into the hall.

The sight gave Molly a pang of envy—not on her account, but on that of her sister.

Why should that girl be so loved and guarded, whilst Kathleen, equally pretty and graceful, was all alone in the world, with no one to protect her from danger, save her weak and helpless little sister? Was it fair? Why did God suffer such differences to be? Could He not make things more equal, if He liked? It seemed as if He did not care. Was it indeed true that there was One who loved the poor and friendless?

Once more, the old doubt stirred in Molly's heart, but she would not give it place.

   "'Lord, I believe; help Thou my unbelief!'" she cried.

And faith grew strong again.

But soon it began to snow in real earnest, and the misery of Molly's situation was doubled. The snow covered her like a cloud, and wetted her to the skin. She must have perished of cold, had not a cabman, who had been watching her as she wandered up and down, taken compassion on her.

"Why don't you go home, little girl?" he called to her. "You'll be frozen if you stay here in the snow."

"I can't go home," said Molly; "I'm waiting for my sister, who's in the theatre."

"You don't mean that she's gone in and left you outside," said the cabman. "That is a shame."

"She did not know; she could not help it," explained Molly. "She is one of the dancers, and I must wait till she comes out."

"Dear me, that's a pity," said the man; "it's not fit for a little child like you to be in the streets to-night. But come and sit in my cab; you'll be a little warmer here."

Molly gladly availed herself of this invitation. She got into the cab, and the man piled the straw about her feet and ankles, and wrapped a rug around her. Then he ran to a coffee-stall close by, and came back with a steaming cup of coffee, which he made Molly drink. It brought a warmer colour to her blue, pinched little face; her teeth ceased to chatter and her limbs to shake, and she soon declared herself quite warm.

"You do look a bit better," said the friendly cabman, "but now tell me, child, what can your mother be thinking of to let you out such a night as this?"

"I've got no mother," said Molly. "Mother and father are both dead. I've no one but Kathleen."

"Dear, dear!" returned the man, with a look of pity. "Only to think of it! Why, I've got a little girl of my own at home, and I wouldn't let her be out such a night as this, not if the Queen herself was to order it, that I wouldn't."

"I shall not get far to-night, I reckon," he said, after a time. "I was to be at the side door at half-past ten and wait for a gentleman. But I shall want double fare for driving through this snow, if, indeed, I can drive through it. There, it's half-past ten already, and the people are beginning to come out, so I must drive round to the door. You want to go there too, do you? That's right."

In spite of the cabman's persuasions, Molly now insisted on getting out of the cab and standing at the door till her sister appeared.

There was great confusion and uproar as the people came out of the theatre. Every one seemed to want a cab, and there were few cabs to be had, and the drivers of these were in no reasonable mood. So shouting and quarrelling resounded on all sides. Molly's friend grew impatient because his "fare" did not come. He was talking of driving away, when the side door opened and two figures appeared. Molly knew them in a moment—they were Kathleen and Mr. Vavasour.

"Kathleen, Kathleen!" she cried, springing forward and seizing her sister's arm.

"Molly, I told you not to come," said Kathleen, angrily.

"Kathleen, I have come to save you," said Molly, earnestly. "You must not trust this man; he is a bad, wicked man. Oh, Kathleen, come home with me—come home at once."

And she tried to pull her sister along.

But as she spoke, her own arm was roughly grasped. "Hold your tongue!" hissed out Mr. Vavasour, as with cruel force he separated the sisters.

Pushing Molly back, he helped Kathleen into the cab, and his foot was upon the step, when the cabman, seeing that something was wrong, interposed.

"Stay a minute, if you please, sir," he said. "I must know the meaning of this before I take you in my cab."

"Oh, don't let him take Kathleen away!" cried Molly, in piteous distress. "He is a bad cruel man. Madame Ganelli says so."

At the sound of this name, the man's face grew white with rage.

"Take that, you wretched little hunchback!" he cried, turning upon Molly in ungovernable fury, and dealing her a severe blow.

Blinded and stunned by that blow, Molly staggered back, slipped on the edge of the pavement, and fell into the road directly in front of the horse.

With a cry of fear, the cabman sprang forward, but he was too late. The animal, startled by Molly's fall, reared wildly for an instant, then plunged onward, trampling beneath his hoofs the child's unconscious form.

NO LONGER DESOLATE.

ERE the horse had run many yards, it was stopped by a passer-by.

Kathleen sprang out of the cab, and rushed back to the spot where Molly lay—a dark little heap on the white snow.

Mr. Vavasour had disappeared.

The child neither moved nor moaned when they lifted her from the ground.

"Oh, she is dead, she is dead!" cried Kathleen, in an agony of grief. "Oh, Molly, Molly, what shall I do?"

"No, there is life in her yet," said the cabman. "Don't make a noise, but help me to get her home. Do you live far from here?"

"Not far—in Church Lane, close to the Edgware Road," replied Kathleen.

Already a crowd of persons was beginning to collect on the spot. This crowd attracted the attention of a tall, strongly-built man, wrapt in a large overcoat, and wearing a travelling cap drawn down comfortably over his ears, who was coming along on the opposite side of the road, carrying a carpet-bag in his hand. Seeing that an accident had occurred, he hastened across the road to inquire what it might be.

Something in the appearance of this gentleman made the people give place to him as he pressed into their midst.

"Are you a doctor, sir?" asked the cabman, as the stranger bent down to look at the child, whom he was supporting in his arms.

"Yes, I am a doctor," he replied. "Let me see the extent of the mischief. Are there any bones broken, I wonder? Ah, some ribs displaced, and there may be injury to the spine, I fear. Where are the child's friends?"

"Her sister is here, sir," said the cabman, pointing to Kathleen; "the poor little girl has no one else belonging to her, I believe. It's a bad business, and the mean scoundrel who was the cause of it all has taken himself off, I see. The child lives close by, sir. I was thinking p'raps I could take her home in my cab?"

"Just so; I will help you. Now, my good girl, stand aside for a moment."

And, with the aid of this kind stranger, Molly was lifted into the cab and slowly conveyed through the snow-cumbered streets to the place she called her home.

Mrs. Jones, the landlady, was thrown into a flutter of excitement when she learned what had happened to her little lodger. Her best feelings came to the fore, and she bustled about, and did all she could to help in the sad emergency. The gentleman who had accompanied the child home was surgeon on board a steamship lying in the London Docks on its return from Australia. He was as kind as he was skilful, and handled the young sufferer with the utmost tenderness.

It was impossible, he said, to ascertain at present the full extent of her injuries. On the morrow he should be able to speak with more certainty, but it seemed to him a most serious case. When he had done all he could for poor Molly, he took his departure, promising to come again early the next morning.

"What is your name?" he asked Kathleen, as he went out of the room.

"Kathleen Macardie," she said.

"And you have neither father nor mother?"

"No, they are both dead."

"Macardie! Macardie!" said the surgeon to himself, as he went away. "Strange that this girl's name should be the same as that of my pleasant fellow-traveller. What was it that he said about wanting to find a brother, who had two little girls? Can it be possible that these children are the same? Surely not. And yet I remember he said he had been away from England so long that he could scarcely know if his friends were dead or alive. It's hardly likely to be as I imagine. But still, if I see him at the hotel to-night, I will tell him of the coincidence."

Throughout that night, Kathleen kept watch beside her sister. For many hours Molly continued in a state of insensibility.

Once Kathleen fancied she heard Molly murmur her name. But when she spoke in reply, her fond words awakened no response.

Unhappy indeed were Kathleen's thoughts as she watched. How she blamed herself as the cause of what had happened, and with what remorse she reflected on the unkindness and neglect with which she had treated her sister!

Her self-reproach grew keener on the following day, when Madame Ganelli, alarmed at Molly's non-appearance at the boarding-house, came to inquire for her.

The singer listened sorrowfully to Kathleen's account of what had happened. Then in return, she confided to the girl a story of wrong and cruelty, which showed the true nature of the man in whom she had been so ready to trust. Kathleen understood now from what deadly peril her faithful little sister had saved her. Bitter tears of grief and shame did she shed as she looked on Molly's pale, sad face, as she lay unconscious of the love which wept over her.

The doctor arrived at an early hour the next morning, and to Kathleen's surprise, he brought a friend with him. His companion was a homely-looking man of medium height, and strong, square frame, whose honest sunburnt face bespoke a kind, true heart. As the stranger entered the room, Kathleen was reminded of her father, yet why she could not tell, for this strong, sturdy man was after all very unlike him.

But she was too anxious to hear the doctor's opinion of Molly's state to think twice of the subtle resemblance she had perceived.

Molly still lay in a stupor, but the doctor's touch aroused her. Her eyes slowly opened and gazed at him with a look of terror, whilst she cried out in a sharp tone, full of pain, "Kathleen! Kathleen!"

"I'm here, Molly, close to your side," said Kathleen.

"You won't leave me!" cried the child. "You won't go away!"

"No, Molly, I'll never leave you, 'never!'" said Kathleen, earnestly.

Molly seemed satisfied, and her eyelids closed again.

"ARE YOU IN PAIN, MY CHILD?"

The doctor bent over his little patient.

"Are you in pain, my child?" he asked, speaking in clear, distinct tones.

Molly opened her eyes and looked at him wonderingly for a moment, then shut her eyes once more.

"You speak to her," said the doctor, turning to Kathleen.

"Do you feel any pain, Molly?" she asked.

Molly looked up again with a faint smile. "No, no pain," she said softly.

"Are you quite comfortable?"

"Yes, quite comfortable," she answered.

The doctor proceeded to examine her more closely, handling her with what Kathleen thought was unnecessary roughness, but not a sound escaped the child. She seemed unconscious of his touch.

"It is as I thought," said the surgeon, turning to the stranger. "That numbness is a bad symptom. The lower limbs are paralysed."

His companion, who had been gazing intently at the sisters, started at the doctor's words. "You do not mean," he whispered, "that the case is hopeless!"

The doctor nodded his head. "She may linger for days," he said, "but recovery is impossible."

The stranger looked shocked at this announcement. After a minute's silence, he turned and addressed Kathleen.

"Your name is Macardie, is it not?"

"Yes, sir, Kathleen Macardie."

"Ah! I think I heard you had lost both your parents?"

Kathleen gave a sign of assent.

"Was your father's name James?"

"Yes, sir, it was," replied Kathleen, looking her surprise at being thus questioned.

"Did you ever hear your father speak of his brother Tom?"

"Oh yes, sir, often. He said his brother Tom had gone to Australia, and was making his fortune there."

"I am that brother Tom, child," said the stranger.

"You, sir—you? It can't be!" exclaimed Kathleen, in great astonishment.

"Yes, my dear girl, I am he! I returned to England a week ago, and have since been trying to discover some trace of my brother's whereabouts. I should not have guessed you were his children, however, had it not struck me just now, when hearing you call each other Molly and Kathleen, that those were the names by which your father spoke of his two girls in his last letter to me."

"Then you did get the letter?" said Kathleen.

"Yes, but it was a year old ere it reached me. I was leading a wandering life in the bush at that time, and had no settled home, so the letter went from one place to another, till at last it fell into my hands. I wrote in reply to the address which your father gave, and enclosed some bank-notes, but I suppose my letter never reached your father, as he had probably left that place long before."

"He never got the letter; I am sure of that," said Kathleen.

"I thought not, for I heard nothing more of him, though I wrote several times. How long is it since your father died?"

"Nearly a year," replied Kathleen.

"And who has taken care of you? How have you lived since then?"

"There's been no one to take care of us," she said; "we've taken care of ourselves."

Her uncle glanced round the cheerless attic, and his eyes filled with tears as he thought of the hardships these children must have had to endure in their lonely, friendless life.

"I will take care of you in future, Kathleen," he said. "Let us thank God that He has watched over you in your loneliness, and now guided me to you."

Kathleen's eyes drooped. Tears were glistening on their long, dark lashes. She had indeed cause for thankfulness, but she could not help the thought, "Oh! If only uncle had come sooner!"

"How glad Molly will be!" she said at last.

But her uncle knew that Molly would not long need his care. Her work was done. Nobly had she kept her promise to her father, and striven to guard Kathleen from harm.

Now the Good Shepherd, who had all along cared for this lone lamb, was coming to gather her in His arms, and take her to rest in His heavenly fold.

A WILLING SACRIFICE.

ON the next day, Molly awoke from the stupor in which she had lain for so many hours. Her mind was clear and calm. She could not recall all that had happened, but she knew that she was very ill, and she seemed to know also that she could not get well.

"I shall go away as father did," she said, confidently.

And Kathleen's hopeful words could not persuade her otherwise. When told of her uncle's coming, she took the news very quietly.

"Jesus has sent him to take care of us," she said gently, with a glad light in her deep, dark eyes.

Her uncle would have liked to remove the little sufferer to more comfortable quarters, but the doctor declared that to be impossible. In the little attic where she had toiled and sorrowed, her young spirit was to gain its release from toil and woe.

"Molly, dear," her uncle said to her, during the course of that day, most of which he spent by her bedside, "tell me what more I can do for you. Is there nothing you wish?"

"Only one thing," answered little Molly, "and I don't know whether you can do it, but if it could be managed, I should so like to see my minister again."

"We will see," said her uncle, who had heard Molly speak of the minister to whose words she had loved to listen; "I'll try to find out where he lives, and ask him to come to you."

"Oh, thank you!" cried Molly, and her face beamed with joy.

"Kathleen," she said to her sister, when their uncle had gone out; "Kathleen, I feel so happy about the future."

"Do you, Molly?" said Kathleen, with a look of wonder.

"I see it all so plain," said the child; "nothing could be better. Uncle has been talking to me. He says he has plenty of money, and he will always take care of you. And he will have you taught all the things you ought to learn; you'll be quite a lady, Kathleen, just what you wished, you know."

"I don't wish it now," said Kathleen; "I only want to see you get well."

"I shall never get well," said little Molly; "I asked uncle, and he said Jesus would come and take me to Himself. And I'm so glad to go, Kathleen. It's so much better, you see. I'm such an ugly, crooked child. I should never be anything but poor little Molly. A little hunchback, some one called me—who was it said so? Oh, it's so much better I should go away. I shan't be a little hunchback then."

"Oh, Molly, I cannot bear it!" sobbed Kathleen, in bitter anguish. "I cannot bear to lose you thus. It is all my fault. But for my unkindness, my 'wickedness,' you might be well now. You have given your life to save me from harm."

"Jesus gave His life for us all," the child murmured; "He died to save us. I did not believe it once. I thought it was only a made-up story. But it's all real true. I know it now. It's all real true. Kathleen, you 'will' believe in Jesus now, won't you?"

"Oh, Molly," Kathleen confessed, "I might have believed before, but I did not 'want' to."

"But you will now," urged her sister; "you'll let Jesus be your Friend?"

"If He will," replied Kathleen; "but I'm so wicked. It would serve me right if He would have nothing to do with me."

"But He loves you," said Molly, "and He will make you good."

She was so weak that it tired her to talk long. She said no more now, but lay still, holding Kathleen's hand tightly in her tiny wasted fingers.

Kathleen sat by her side, shedding bitter tears as she mused over the past. Sad and solemn were her thoughts in that quiet hour. Presently she heard a tap at the door. Kathleen rose and opened the door, and after a whispered talk with some one outside, came back to her sister.

"It is Ned Jones, Molly," she said; "he does so want to see you. Could you bear to speak to him for one minute?"

"Oh yes, let him come in," said Molly; "I should like to see Ned."

Ned came in with a sad, subdued look.

"Poor little Molly," he said, as he took her tiny hand into his large, brown palm, and gently patted it, "poor little Molly! I'm so sorry to see you thus."

"Don't be sorry for me," she answered; "I'm happy, Ned. Jesus makes me happy. It's all real true about Him. You must never say again that it is only a make-believe."

"I never will," Nod replied, earnestly.

"Jesus will make you happy, Ned, if you will let Him," she said; "He loves you, Ned; oh, won't you love Him too?"

"I will try," he murmured. And then, strong manly fellow that he was, he burst into tears, and Kathleen was obliged to hurry him from the room, lest the sight of his emotion should distress Molly.

But the child lay back on her pillow with a happy smile upon her face, and did not seem the worse for Ned's visit.

MOLLY'S DIFFICULTIES COME TO AN END.

AFTER some difficulty, Molly's uncle succeeded in finding the minister, who readily consented to come at once to see the child. He listened with sorrow to the story of the trouble Molly had known since he had lost sight of her, and the sad way in which her little life was ending.

But he believed that God would bring gain out of loss, and crown that blighted childhood with everlasting joy.

The day was near its close, and it was almost dark when Mr. Macardie and the minister climbed the steep stair to the attic.

Molly had grown much weaker during the last hour. Her strength was going rapidly, but her mind was still unclouded.

She recognised her minister as he entered the room, and stretched out her little hand to him with a smile of welcome.

"I'm so glad you've come," she said, softly; and then turning to her sister, she added, "bring the candle nearer, please; I want to see my minister quite plain."

Kathleen brought the light and held it, whilst Molly gazed with love and confidence at the kind face which looked on her with tenderest sympathy.

"It is all right, is it not, Molly?" asked the minister. "Jesus is with you."

"Yes!" she murmured, faintly, her lips parting with a smile. "Jesus is with me!"

In a few simple words he spoke to her of the loving Saviour, and of the happy home to which his own darling child had gone, and into which she, too, would soon be gathered.

Molly seemed to understand what he said. The happy look lingered on her face.

"It's all real true!" she whispered once. "All real true!"

Then the minister knelt by her bedside, and commended the dying child to the care of the Good Shepherd.

As he prayed, Molly fell into a doze, from which she did not rouse whilst he remained there.

As he went out of the house, the minister met Madame Ganelli, who was coming to see her little friend.

Giving him a quick, observant glance, she said, "You are little Molly's minister, are you not, sir?"

"Yes," he replied, looking at her with surprise; "I am little Molly's minister."

"Oh, poor little Molly!" cried the singer, in a broken voice. "Is it not a dreadful thing? My heart aches for the child. To think that she should be sacrificed to a man's cruel rage!"

"Do not grieve for her," said the minister, gently. "Sad though her case seems, it is well with the child."

"I know it! I know it!" cried the lady, bursting into tears. "She is so good! Oh! I cannot tell you what I owe to little Molly! That child has been my salvation!"

"How so?" he asked.

"To explain that, I should have to tell you a sad story," said Madame Ganelli, stepping within the shelter of the doorway, and giving a searching look into the minister's face.

The look seemed to encourage her, for she added, "The story is too long and too sad to be told now and here, but I think I should like to tell it to you some time, if you would let me. I have long wished to open my heart to some one, and it seems to me that you are the person to help me."

"Indeed! I shall be glad to receive your confidence, and to give you all the help in my power," replied the minister, his voice full of sympathy. "Could you come with me, now, to the mission hall? It is but a few steps from here, and we could talk quietly there."

Madame Ganelli hesitated for a moment. She felt half frightened at being so promptly taken at her word.

"Just as you like," he said; "if you would prefer speaking to me at another time—"

"No, no," she responded, quickly; "there is no good in delay. I will come with you at once, as you kindly ask me."

In a few minutes, they were at the mission hall. The gas was lighted within, and a woman was moving about arranging the benches for the service an hour later. At a word from the minister, she retired.

"Now," said he, as he gave the lady a chair, "what is it you have to tell me? Do not be afraid to speak freely, as to a friend."

"I believe I shall find you a friend," she replied, "and will therefore hide nothing from you. You will be surprised to hear that the wicked man who brought this trouble upon Molly is my husband."

"What!" cried the minister, with a look of astonishment. "Your husband! Is your name Vavasour, then?"

"No; nor is his. That is merely a name assumed to serve the purpose of his profession. For a similar reason, I have called myself Ganelli. My real name is Sherwin—Catherine Sherwin. I am no foreigner, but was born and brought up in a pretty country place in Berkshire. My parents were good Christian folk.

"My father was postmaster of the little town where we lived. He had to work very hard, but his leisure was devoted to doing good. On Sunday afternoons, no matter what the weather might be, he would walk several miles in order to hold a cottage-meeting in an out-of-the-way place, where there was no church for the poor people to attend. In our home, we always had family prayers, night and morning. I can remember my father's prayers now."

Here Madame Ganelli's voice trembled with emotion, and she was obliged to pause for a while.

"I was my parents' only child," she went on presently, "and they lavished on me all the love of their hearts. But I wounded their love and disappointed their hopes. They were determined to give me a good education, and that I might have unusual advantages, sent me to a superior boarding-school, from which I returned accomplished and polished, but vain and frivolous in character. I had learned that I was beautiful, also that I possessed a remarkably fine voice. A vain ambition awoke within me, and longing to display my gifts, I was no longer satisfied to share my parents' humdrum life.

"I yearned to distinguish myself in a larger world, never doubting that my beauty and accomplishments would win me the happiness I craved.

"My parents saw the mistake which they in their love had made. Vainly they strove to arouse in me higher aspirations. My father pleaded with me to give my heart to the Saviour, but I would not heed his words. I did not want to be religious. I wanted to be gay and clever and admired. My foolish vanity was fed from time to time by words of admiration from friends outside my home. My voice was heard and admired as I sang in our church, and the rector came himself to ask me to join the choir. This I was easily persuaded to do, and from that time, the very praises of God's house were a snare to me.

"Strangers inquired who was the lovely girl who sang so sweetly, and compared my voice to that of their favourite opera-singer.

"Their words came to my ears, and gave a definite form to my ambitious longings.

"I was eager to go to London and be trained for a public singer. Oh, what a life, I thought, mine would then be! I pictured myself a famous singer, with crowds flocking to hear me whenever I sang in public.

"How delightful to stand upon a glittering stage, and hear the hall ring with applause of my song, whilst bouquets were tossed at my feet, and I was flattered and admired as a queen!

"With such visions did I delude myself, never dreaming of the heart-ache and disappointment, the sin and misery, which such a career too often involves.

"I did not mention my wishes to my parents. I knew that they would never consent to my leaving home, and devoting myself to such a profession. But the thought was seldom out of my mind. I dwelt upon it till selfish ambition stifled all sense of filial love and duty, so that when temptation came, my will yielded a ready consent.

"That summer there came to our neighbourhood a fine gentleman, an actor from one of the London theatres. He had come into the country to recruit his health, and during his idle hours, I attracted his notice, and was soon flattered by his constant attention. He was a handsome man, and my vanity was easily beguiled by his winning manner. Ere my parents even knew that I had made his acquaintance, I had confided to him my ambitious dreams, in response to his lavish praise of my voice and my appearance. He gladdened my ears with repeated assurances of success, and took advantage of my weakness by urging me to marry him without my parents' consent. If I became his wife, he promised me the training I required to fit me for a public career. In glowing terms, he described to me the grand future thus open to me. I listened, and in my folly believed all. I fancied that I loved this man, of whom I knew scarce anything, fancied that with him I should find a happiness that would compensate me for the loss of my old home and my parents' love.

"But I did not yield to his persuasions without a struggle. It cost me many a pang to think of leaving, without even a word of farewell, the father and mother who loved me so dearly. But with artful words, he made light of my scruples. It was only for a time, he said. I should soon return to see my parents, and how pleased and proud they would be when I won for them fame and distinction. So I took the irrevocable step. In the darkness of night, I stole away from my home accompanied by this man. We were married the next morning in London, and at once started for the Continent."

Here Madame Ganelli made a pause. The minister said not a word, but waited till she could recover herself and continue her narrative.

"I never saw my father and mother again," she said at last. "Before I had been long married, I learned the true nature of my husband, and saw what a fatal mistake I had made.

"We settled in lodgings in Paris, and there my musical education began. My husband spared no pains in procuring me the best instruction. He had set his heart, for his own sake, on my success.

"I worked hard with a kind of desperate diligence, trying to kill by industry the sore pain of remorse. For a time my husband treated me with tolerable kindness. But as months rolled on, and my spirit grew more and more despondent, he wearied of me, and often left me alone for weeks at a time in my dull lodging.

"I heard nothing of my parents all this while. My husband would not allow me to write to them. I should see them, he promised, when we returned to England. He had entered on a long engagement at one of the Paris theatres, and did not propose returning to London till the following year.

"Ere that time arrived, I became the mother of a beautiful boy. Oh, how I loved my precious babe! He was the sole joy of my life. I used to picture to myself the day when, carrying him in my arms, I would make my way back to my old home, and falling at my mother's feet beseech her to forgive me, if not for my own sake for that of the child.

"But it was not to be.

"My musical studies compelled me to consign my babe to the care of another for the greater part of each day. This was a great trial to me. I grudged every hour passed away from my boy, and was always anxious lest harm should come to him in my absence. He was a small and delicate child, and did not thrive as I could wish.

"At last, the time came when my husband was free to take me to London, there to make my 'début' as a singer.

"Ah! What hopes and fears contended within my soul when I landed on the English shore! Not from anxiety for professional success; I had ceased to care much about that. But I hoped to see again the faces of my father and mother, and to hear them say that they forgave me.

"But this hope was soon slain.

"At the hotel, where we were to rest that night, I chanced to take up a newspaper. My eye glanced over the list of deaths. Suddenly my heart stood still, and a numbness took possession of my frame. For there in that line was my mother's name! Then I knew that my wicked conduct had broken her heart."

****

"I scarcely know how I lived after that. I was like one in a dream, save when I had my baby in my arms, and was comforted by the touch of his tiny hand smoothing my cheek or playing with my hair.

"I began to sing in public, but my singing was not the success my husband had hoped it would prove. It was good in its way, but it lacked inspiration. I won my fair meed of praise, but gave no promise of rising above mediocrity in the ranks of singers.

"My husband was furious at what he termed my failure. But in vain, he stormed and threatened. I could do no better.

"At last there came a day I shall never forget. My beautiful boy was suddenly taken ill. All day he lay on my lap, his little body racked by convulsions, which threatened death at every moment.

"I was engaged to sing in an opera that night, and my husband had set his heart on my making a sensation. I implored him to find some one to take my place, and get me excused, but he would not listen to me.

"The child would be all right, he declared, and I must and I should sing. With cruel force, he took me from my child, as he lay panting and struggling, a sight to rend a mother's heart, and carried me off to the theatre at which I was to sing.

"I sang that night as I had never sung before. Tortured with anxiety, trembling from excitement, I stood upon the stage. My song was a wild lament, and I poured out in its swelling notes all the anguish of my soul. It was with no feigned misery that my voice quivered, and the reality of my emotion penetrated to the hearts of my audience, thrilling them in response. As my song died away, a thunder of applause greeted my ears. The building re-echoed with the sound of my triumph. A bouquet fell at my feet.

"As in a dream, I heard the shouts and clapping; through a haze of tears I saw the admiring glances cast upon me; then bowing low, I retired. Thus were my girlish dreams realized. Did any one envy me that night, I wonder?"

The speaker's voice again failed her. Tears would have their way, and some minutes passed ere she could go on with her story.

"I cannot dwell upon the events of that night," she said, speaking with forced calmness. "When I reached home, my boy was dead. They told me that for an hour before he passed away, he kept calling for me in baby words.

"I must pass over the anguish of that time. It almost killed me. I was ill—very ill—for weeks.

"When I recovered, I was an altered being. My beauty was gone, and with it all hope of shining as a star in the musical world.

"My voice had lost its power. I could no longer command the rich, full notes which had won me admiration. Even if my voice regained strength, as a physician declared that in time it would, it was but too evident that I should never be more than a second-rate singer.

"My husband did not attempt to conceal his mortification at this issue. He no longer made any show of affection for me, but treated me with the utmost cruelty.

"Before I had fully recovered from the effects of my long illness, he basely deserted me, leaving me to struggle through life as best I could alone. I believe he went to the Continent, but I did not try to recall him, though I might easily have traced him through his connection with the theatres.

"The first thing I did in my freedom was to journey to my native place, in the hope of finding my father there. But again I was too late, and reached my old home only to learn that my father had died a few weeks earlier.

"Heart-broken, I returned to London.

"I took lodgings in a quiet suburb, and found employment in giving singing lessons. I called myself Ganelli; and when people questioned me as to my history, I said that I was the widow of a foreigner.

"But I could not long endure the quietude and monotony of this life. Painful thoughts tortured me, and I hoped to escape them by resuming my old profession. My voice was now stronger, and I could sing in public again.

"So I once more appeared in concert-rooms and halls, and sang with some measure of success.

"But no happiness came to me. Sorrow and remorse were ever working at my heart, though no one would have guessed it who heard me sing. The songs I chose were generally of a lively character. I could not bear to sing a melancholy strain; grief was too real a thing for me.

"Sacred music also I avoided. I felt myself too great a sinner to take holy words upon my lips.

"However, one day, contrary to my usual habit, to oblige a friend, I agreed to take part in an oratorio. In preparation for the concert, I was one morning practising the sublime words, 'I know that my Redeemer liveth,' when suddenly little Molly burst into my room, and eagerly asked me to tell her how I was so sure that the Redeemer lived.

"The child was employed to clean boots at the boarding-house in which I lived, but I had not seen her before. I was greatly startled by her sudden appearance and the strange question she put. I would fain have checked her eager words, but her anxiety was so real and earnest that I felt bound to assure her of the truth, which I could never doubt. Unhappy though I was, I believed that there was a God and a Saviour. I told the child that what she had heard of the Lord Jesus was indeed true, and she left my room with hope sparkling in her eyes. Then I bowed my head and wept, because there was hope for that poor child, but no hope for me.

"After this, I took great interest in little Molly. I felt anxious to befriend her, but ere long personal anxiety drove her from my thoughts. I had learned some time before that my husband had returned to London, and was acting at the S— Theatre. I did my best to avoid meeting him, and for a time was successful. But it was impossible for me, in the public life I led, to long escape his notice. One evening, when I left the hall at which I had been singing, I found him waiting for me at the door.

"A stormy interview ensued. He urged me to return to him, but I, remembering his past cruelty, and believing that he only wished me to return that he might profit by my earnings, refused to listen to him.

"Then he threatened me, but hoping that the law would protect me from his malice, I dared him to do his worst.

"At last, seeing that I was not to be moved, he left me; but from that day, he lost no opportunity of annoying me. He vented his spite upon me in a thousand ways too petty to describe, yet sufficiently vexatious.

"I bore it as well as I could. But what words can describe my consternation when I learned from poor little Molly that the man who had ruined the happiness of my life was calling himself her sister's friend, and deceiving the poor girl into such a belief in his good-will that she was ready to trust her future to him.

"Oh, what I suffered as I thought of Kathleen's peril! I felt I must save her, yet was powerless to do anything. I could only solemnly warn little Molly of the man's true nature, and entreat her to save her sister.

"But though I could not help them, I knew there was One who could. For years I had not dared to pray for myself, but now I prayed for those poor children as I had never prayed before."

"And your prayer was answered," said the minister, as she paused.

"It was answered in a sad way," she returned.

"Sad to our human short-sightedness," said the minister. "But God's ways are not as our ways. We can trust little Molly in His loving hands."

Madame Ganelli was silent.

"Is this all you have to tell me, my sister?" asked the minister, presently.

"I have told you all my story," the singer replied.

"But have you nothing to say of yourself? After you had prayed for these poor girls, could you not bring your own case before the Lord?"

"I tried to do so," she said, tears springing anew to her eyes. "I remembered some words little Molly had said to me. She told me that Jesus loved me better than even my mother had loved me; and I knew that bad though I was, my mother had never ceased to love me, and that if I could have gained her side ere she passed away, she would have received me without a word of reproach, and have given me a full and free forgiveness. Is it true? Does the Lord love us like that?"

"Ay, it is true," he answered. "Your life has been hard and bitter, but it was not the Lord's will that it should be thus. You have tasted the fruit of your own wrong-doing. He would have saved you from misery, but you would not let Him. The strokes with which He has smitten you have been dealt in love. Now, if you will turn to Him, and seek His forgiveness, He will soothe your heart's sorrows and give you peace, as a mother would comfort her child who ran to her to heal the smarting pain resulting from some act of wilfulness. Do not fear to trust His love."

The singer's face brightened.

"I shall not forget your words," she said, as she rose to go; "they give me hope. You are indeed a friend."

"The servant of a better Friend," he replied. "To Him I commend you. He can meet all your need."

From the mission hall, Madame Ganelli hastened to Molly's bedside.

The child still lay in a doze, but signs of the approach of death were becoming more and more visible to the eyes of the watchers. They thought she would pass away in her sleep, but presently she moved, opened her eyes, and looked up in bewilderment.

Her face was darkened with a look of distress. "Don't leave me, Kathleen," she cried, pitifully; "don't leave your poor little Molly! What will become of me if you go away?"

"I will never leave you," Kathleen told her, in a broken voice. "Oh, Molly dear, I would not go away from you now for the world!"

At the sound of her words, Molly's bewilderment ceased. Her brow cleared, and she looked at her sister with a smile.

"Oh no, I forgot," she said, faintly; "it is not you, but I, little Molly, who am going away. And I'm glad to go."

She smiled, as with one hand she clasped her uncle's, and with the other Kathleen's hand in token of farewell. Then she caught sight of Madame Ganelli, and greeted her, too, with a smile.

The smile died away, and she looked into the singer's face with an anxious, questioning glance, as if she would fain ask something, but had no words.

Madame Ganelli thought she understood that look. "Molly," she said, bending down close to her and speaking very distinctly, "Molly, I can say it now from my heart, I 'know' that 'my' Redeemer liveth."

Molly understood the words. A gleam of joy lit up her tiny white face, as half raising herself in bed she cried in clear, ringing tones, "I know, I know! Jesus lives! It's all real true."

They were the last words she spoke. She sank back, and her eyes closed. A happy, peaceful expression settled on her face, and remained there. The breath came slowly and quietly through her parted lips. Soon no sound broke the stillness of the room, for little Molly was away.

Doubts and difficulties would vex her spirit no more, toil and want were for ever past. Out of the darkness of this lower world God had taken her into the perfect light beyond, and the child was in the presence of the Saviour whom on earth she had yearned to know.

THE END.

————————————————————————————————
London: Pardon and Sons, Printers. Paternoster Row.