Phil's Mother

"SOMETHING HAPPENS" TO PHIL.

The dwellers in that dim, narrow alley, where scarce six feet of paving-stone separated the houses on one side from the houses on the other, had little to commend them. Integrity and uprightness could not be attributed to any, but there were varying degrees of evil in the sinful, sorrowful lives lived there. Amongst all, no one was more hardened in sin, more relentless in cruelty, more lost to all true womanly feeling, than was Moll Dutton.

"Phil, Phil!" she shouted, as she staggered to the door of the house in which she occupied a room. "Where's that good-for-nothing young rascal? Where's he hiding, the lazy imp? He'd better make haste to show himself, or I'll break every bone in his body when I do find him!"

"Phil's away about his business," said Fan, leaning from an upper window opposite, whence she could address Moll with impunity. "It's no use calling to him."

"Business, indeed! The young lazybones!" returned Moll angrily. "It's little enough business he does. He brought me only a few coppers yesterday. There's no teaching that boy anything. What's the good of his blue eyes and his baby face, if he can't make use of them to wheedle folks into giving?" So saying, she passed into the house.

Phil had indeed gone about his business, with a sudden awakening to a sense of duty at the news of his mother's approach. He did not like his "business," which, as the reader will have guessed, was neither more nor less than begging. Moll had done her best to teach him to cry and whine and tell untruths calculated to touch the hearts of the charitable, but she was not pleased with the result of her endeavours. Phil showed no aptitude for his irregular profession. He succeeded best when most passive, for a wistful, pleading glance from the childish blue eyes was more eloquent than the would-be pitiful stories which he could never utter so glibly as Moll tried to make him.

The alley in which Phil lived lay midway between Lincoln's Inn Fields and High Holborn. Hurrying from it, he made his way by many a short cut into Oxford Street. It was time he began to beg, if he would escape a severe beating from his mother when the day was over.

The short November day was already drawing to its close. A cold drizzle filled the air, the roads were slushy, the pavements greasy; it was not weather in which people were disposed to linger. City men, closely buttoned in the thickest overcoats, were hastening westwards, eager to gain the shelter and comfort of their homes. Ladies passed by, too intent upon caring for their skirts and picking their way through the mud to give a single glance at the white, thin face of the six years old lad who pleaded for a copper, saying that he had eaten nothing that day.

Phil began to feel rather hopeless, as one after another turned a deaf ear to his appeals or pushed aside his uplifted palm. Presently an old gentleman, short of stature, and very trim in appearance, came in sight, who took his way through the mud with much caution, and seemed to have a keen perception of all that passed before his eyes. Phil's quick instincts warned him that this old gentleman was not one who could be easily imposed upon, nor one who would too readily part with his money. Yet he begged of him, though with little hope of success.

At the sound of the boy's voice, the old gentleman stopped short and surveyed Phil with his shrewd grey eyes. Phil's words faltered, as beneath their stern gaze, he tried to tell his tale.

"Mother dead, is she? Got no one to take care of you, and have eaten nothing to-day, eh?" he said, repeating the details of Phil's story in cold, ironical tones. "My boy, I don't believe a word of it! Now look at me and tell me the truth; you're too young to have quite forgotten how to speak it, and I shall know if you tell me a lie. Your mother is living, isn't she, and she has made up this story for you and sent you out to beg? It is so, is it not?"

"Yes, sir," faltered Phil, surprised into speaking the very truth, "but—but—I wish she were dead."

"What!" exclaimed the gentleman, startled and shocked. "You wish that your mother were dead! Do you know what you are saying?"

"Yes," said Phil stolidly; "I wish that she were dead. She knocks me about awful sometimes. I do wish that she were dead."

His words but deepened the old gentleman's horror. "You bad boy! You hard-hearted little wretch!" he exclaimed. "I have always detested boys, but you are the worst I ever did meet with. Calmly wishing that his own mother were dead!"

And, raising his hands in horrified protest, the gentleman passed on, more convinced than before of the enormity of boy-nature. He was a just and worthy man, the son of a good mother, the husband of a good wife, but his mind and sympathies were somewhat narrow, and he had not sufficient imagination to conceive of such a mother as Moll Dutton.

"The boy must be thoroughly bad, to speak of his mother so," he said to himself.

Phil stood looking after him in bewilderment. He was disappointed at missing the penny of which he had felt certain when the gentleman paused to speak to him. He made mental note of the effect produced by his truth-speaking, and resolved that, if ever again forced to admit that his mother was living, he would refrain from stating that the fact was not in accordance with his wishes.

Phil shivered as he looked at his scanty store of coppers. His ragged garments were wet through, but he did not dare to return home till he had gained some more pence. Seeing a policeman near, he slunk away, resolved to try his fortune in a fresh field.

Hurrying along through the narrow dingy streets he knew so well, Phil soon reached the Strand. The carriages drawn up at the entrance to one of the theatres made him aware that an afternoon performance was taking place, and that the audience might soon be expected to disperse. Here was an opportunity worth waiting for, Phil thought. He stole beneath the portico, and sat down in the shadow of one of the heavy pillars.

Waiting is a trial of patience at the best of times, and Phil, shivering in the raw evening air, found it wearisome indeed. He was hungry too, and a dull weight of misery lay upon his childish heart. There seemed small chance of his escaping a beating from his mother that night. He turned up one of his ragged coat-sleeves, and looked ruefully at certain dark bruises which appeared on his thin little arm.

"I hate her," he said, half aloud; "I do wish that she were dead! Why shouldn't I? I'd be glad if something 'ud happen to her. If she was to be found dead in her bed, like old Toiler, I'd be real glad, I would."

Looking at the boy's innocent, childish face, his blue eyes, his yellow curls, no one would have judged him capable of uttering such unnatural sentiments. Yet was he to blame if for him the sacred name of mother had no charm, conveying no sense of protecting love and comforting tenderness? No motherless child had known a sorer lack of love than Phil.

Yet he knew that love existed in the sad, dark world into which he had been born, for the boy's heart cherished a dim memory of a day far back in the past, when a pale-faced, sweet-voiced woman had come to his dismal home, a woman who had taken him on to her lap and pressed him to her bosom, whilst she stroked his curls, and called him "Phil" in tones which made his name sound something quite new and pleasant. He remembered the sweet golden butter and the eggs she had brought, and, what was better, the bunch of roses, which he had kept till they were brown and dead. Never had Phil tasted such food as he enjoyed that day seated on the stranger's lap.

A tear had splashed on his cheek as he ate. And looking up, he saw that she was crying, and wondered why, though the fact had no power to break his deep content at the moment. He had asked her what was her name, and she had answered "Lizzie," and told him that he might call her "Aunt Lizzie," if he liked.

All too soon his mother had come upon the scene, and then the gentle stranger went away, and Phil had never seen her since, though he had often dreamed of her.

Something had recalled this one bright spot of memory to Phil's mind now, as he lingered at the door of the theatre.

"I wish she would come again," he thought, "but that won't never be. If only something might happen, so that I need not go home any more!"

But he was roused from these unprofitable musings by the bustle which announced that the play was over. As the people poured out through the open doors, he made his appeal to one and another with all the effect he could command. But the opportunity was not so good as he had imagined. Coming from the warm, bright house into the chill, damp night, every one was intent upon getting home as speedily as possible, and Phil found none to listen to him. He was roughly pushed aside by those who were struggling to secure cab or omnibus. Phil was not alarmed by the crowding and pushing. He dodged in and out amongst the people, diving under the heads of horses or creeping behind the wheels of carriages in his endeavours to follow up those who seemed most likely to be moved by compassion.

"Now then, boy, don't stand there begging, but be of use if you can," an excitable old lady charged him. "I'll give you twopence if you can get me a cab. See, there is one over the way. Run, quick!"

Phil needed no urging. In another moment he was in the road, fearlessly running between the passing vehicles. But ere the boy could reach the other side, the cab was in motion, a signal from some one else having attracted the driver's attention. Quick as thought, Phil doubled back, hoping to arrest it midway as it crossed the road. Intent upon his object, he forgot the dangers of the crowded thoroughfare.

A shout from behind startled him. He looked round, and saw two prancing, high-bred horses just upon him. Phil darted back, but, alas! he but escaped one peril to fall into another. The shaft of a passing cab struck him, and the shock threw him on the ground right in front of a heavily-laden van drawn by two powerful horses, which were being driven at a smart pace. There was no time to draw them in—no possibility of preventing what happened. An agonizing cry rang out on the air as over Phil's body rolled the heavy wheel.

The usual crowd gathered. A policeman came forward and took charge of the case. Under his directions, Phil's crushed form was lifted from the ground and conveyed to the nearest hospital.

"What is it all about?" some people were asking, as they watched the gathering crowd from the shelter of the theatre portico.

"Only a little boy run over. Such accidents happen every day; and it is a wonder there are not more of them. Killed, is he? Ah, poor little fellow! It is a shame that children are allowed to run about so in London."

And thus dismissing from their minds the commonplace occurrence, the play-goers went their way, and the stream of traffic flowed on as before along the Strand. The old lady who had sent Phil on his fatal errand had secured another cab almost immediately, and had driven off without caring to remember that she had bade the boy fetch her one. Perhaps she would have felt some twinges of self-reproach had she known what befell him.

Poor little Phil! His wish had found a terrible fulfilment. Something had indeed happened to prevent him from returning to his unhappy home.

IN THE HOSPITAL.

"WILL he live?"

"Impossible to say. His injuries are very complicated. The thighbone being so crushed, there will be nothing for it but amputation, and he will hardly stand that, I fear."

"Poor little fellow!" said Sister Kathleen, as she looked upon Phil lying in his hospital bed. His tiny face, utterly colourless, was sad to see, as every now and then it quivered, whilst he uttered a sharp, agonizing cry. "He must suffer terribly."

"Not so much as you suppose. He is unconscious. Those screams result from the shock to the brain. He will need close attention to-night."

"I will take charge of him myself," said Sister Kathleen; "he shall have every chance of recovering, poor little fellow."

"I see the case interests you," said the surgeon; "and if you look after him, he will have every chance. Well, I don't despair of him. We have brought complications as bad to a successful issue. The worst of it is, these poor little beggars have as a rule no constitution to go upon. He looks as if he had been half-starved all his life."

"Ah, and used to hard blows too," said the hospital Sister; "I saw that there were bruises on his poor little arms when we undressed him. Perhaps it would be a mercy for him if he did not live, poor child."

The surgeon shrugged his shoulders as he turned away.

Sister Kathleen sighed as she followed him to the next bed.

A tender heart had Sister Kathleen, but not too tender for her calling, since its tenderness was counterbalanced by sterner qualities, by strong resolution, self-control, and unflinching courage. She was a woman of middle stature, strongly built, and quick, healthful energy characterized her words and actions. She had strongly-marked features of the Roman type, and steady, dark eyes. She was emphatically a woman of powerful yet pleasing presence. Her clear, full voice, never raised high, had power not to charm only, but to overawe and subdue. No nurse or patient in the wards of which she had the oversight ever dared to dispute a command from Sister Kathleen. The doctors knew well the worth of this Sister, and were glad to secure her help in any complicated and difficult case.

Sister Kathleen kept watch beside Phil's bed that night. He was restless and feverish, and at times uttered piercing screams, and wild, delirious words.

"Mother, mother, don't beat me!" he cried. "I couldn't help it; they wouldn't give me more. Oh, mother! Mother!" Then, in lower tones, "Aunt Lizzie! If only Aunt Lizzie would come!"

Sister Kathleen laid her cool hand on the child's forehead.

A quieter look came to his face. He murmured, "Aunt Lizzie," and presently he sank into a doze.

With the morning, Phil woke to full consciousness of his pain. The blue eyes, looking up bewildered, met the kind gaze of Sister Kathleen. The bewilderment seemed to deepen for a moment, then his brow cleared, and with the air of one who has solved a difficulty, he said quietly, "Aunt Lizzie?"

"No," said the Sister, in her clear, decided tones; "it is not Aunt Lizzie. I am Sister Kathleen."

A perplexed, troubled look came to the child's face.

"You wonder where you are," said Sister Kathleen, "but don't be afraid. You are in a hospital. You were run over in the street yesterday, and they brought you here."

A sharp scream interrupted her. Phil had tried to move, and finding it impossible, he screamed again and again.

"Yes, yes, you are in great pain, I know," said Sister Kathleen tenderly, "but you must keep quiet. You must try to be patient."

Phil had not learned to practise patience. It was his habit to kick, struggle, and scream, and as far as possible defend himself under any form of suffering. He screamed more loudly than before, and tried to tear off the bandages that restrained his movements. The Sister had to call a nurse to her assistance, and together they strapped Phil's arms to his sides, so as to prevent his doing himself any injury.

Sister Kathleen bent over the little sufferer, and her kind dark eyes looked into his. Her calm gaze had a soothing influence, and he ceased to scream.

"What is your name, my child?" she asked.

"Phil," was his reply.

"Phil," she repeated; "that is short for Philip, I suppose. What is your other name?"

"Ain't got no other," he said; "nobody calls me nothink but Phil."

"But your father has another name? You have a father?"

"No," said Phil, "I ain't. I've got a mother, though," he added, with a heavy sigh.

"Well, what is your mother's name?"

"Oh, they calls her Moll Dutton," said the boy, his brow contracting with pain.

"Then your name is Philip Dutton," said the Sister. "Now can you tell me where you live?"

"In Charles Alley," said the boy; "it's Holborn way."

"Cannot you give me any clearer direction?" she asked. "Well, never mind; I daresay we can find your mother by that. We will send and tell her that you are here, for I'm sure she must be very uneasy about you."

"Oh, don't!" cried Phil, looking imploringly at her. "Don't send. I don't want mother to come here. I'd rather she did not know where I am."

"Whatever next!" said Sister Kathleen, with a smile. "Of course your mother must be told. Are you afraid that she will be angry with you for getting into trouble? You need not fear that. I am sure she will be only too glad to find you living."

"But I don't want to see her. I don't want her to come!" cried Phil, and he began to scream anew.

"Poor boy, the pain makes him fractious," said Sister Kathleen, as she left him in the care of a nurse, and went away to take the rest she needed.

When she saw Phil again, some hours later, he was sleeping under the influence of an anæsthetic. She looked with tender interest at the little white face and the golden curls which clustered so thickly over his brows. He was a pretty boy, she thought, although his face was marred by want and suffering.

But Sister Kathleen could not linger by his bed then, nor could she see much of him on the following day, for it was operation day, and a critical case claimed her attention. She came to look at him in the evening, however.

It was the hour at which the patients' friends were permitted to visit them, and as she approached Phil's bed, she saw a woman seated by his side. She was a young-looking woman, and could hardly have been more than seven-and-twenty, if so old, but her pale face had a singularly sad expression, a look of restrained, hopeless grief, which marked her as one to whom sorrow was no occasional visitant but a daily companion. She was dressed in neat but homely fashion—a dark straw bonnet, severely plain, a grey waterproof cloak, strong boots, and woollen gloves; not at all the kind of attire Phil's mother might be expected to wear.

But Sister Kathleen did not wait to weigh probabilities. She saw the sorrowful tenderness of the woman's look as she bent over Phil, the tears in her eyes, and the dawning comfort on the boy's face as he met her loving gaze. The Sister laid her hand on the woman's arm, and said, in a tone of conviction, "You are his mother."

The woman started up, and a low nervous cry escaped her. Her colour fled utterly. She was white to the very lips as she gazed at Sister Kathleen with eyes wide-opened, apparently too startled to speak. But ere there was time to wonder at her silence, a nurse standing by spoke.

"You make a mistake, Sister," she said. "This is not Phil's mother. She is his aunt."

"Yes," said the woman, finding words at last, but speaking in tremulous, agitated tones; "I am his aunt—his Aunt Lizzie."

"Ah, then I have heard of you," said Sister Kathleen kindly. "Pray sit down. The sight of him has distressed you. You are little accustomed to illness, I daresay?"

The woman murmured an assent as she sat down. But almost immediately she rose again, in spite of a cry of distress from Phil, and said hurriedly, as she looked at her watch, "I must be going. I have to catch a train."

Then, turning to the Sister, she said, with an imploring glance, "May I speak to you for a minute before I go?"

The pathetic glance of the blue eyes, eyes so like Phil's, went to Sister Kathleen's heart.

"Certainly," she answered; "come with me."

And she led the way to a small private room opening from the ward.

Phil's aunt stayed only to press some tender, clinging kisses on his wan lips, then quickly followed the Sister.

"Tell me," she said breathlessly, as soon as they were alone, "is he much hurt? Will he live?"

"He is very badly hurt," said Sister Kathleen gravely; "several ribs are displaced, and his thigh sadly crushed. I am grieved to give you pain, but I fear—I know, indeed, that the surgeons think it necessary to amputate the limb."

A shiver ran through the aunt's frame. She sank on to a chair, and turned so white that the Sister moved hastily to her side, fearing she was about to faint. The woman looked at her with anguish in her glance, and repeated the question, "Will he live?"

"I hope so," was all Sister Kathleen could say, "but I must not conceal from you that it is a highly critical case. As far as I can judge, the chances of life or death are pretty equally balanced. He is terribly injured, and there are many things against him. Still it is wonderful what children pull through."

Phil's aunt shivered again, and murmured something that the Sister could not quite hear, but she fancied she caught the words, "God help me!"

"You must try to hope for the best," she said gently. "We will do all in our power for little Phil; you may be sure of that."

The young woman was silent for a few moments. Then she said, in low, unsteady tones, "But if he lives, he will be a cripple."

"Yes," said Sister Kathleen; "he will be a cripple."

There was the sound of a stifled sob as Phil's aunt rose and hurried to the door. "I must go," she said brokenly; "I dare not stay longer."

"Have you far to go?" asked the Sister.

"Yes, it is some way. I live in the country, and I came up on purpose to see Phil. I did not know till this morning that he was here."

Sister Kathleen looked at her in wonder. It was not surprising to hear that she was from the country. The Sister had felt sure of that, as she observed the speech and bearing of Phil's aunt. She wondered to think that little Phil, ragged and wretched as had been his appearance when brought into the hospital, should have a relative so refined and respectable as this woman seemed to be. Sister Kathleen accompanied the stranger to the landing, and stood watching her slight, drooping figure as she passed down the broad stone staircase.

"So that was not Phil's mother!" the Sister said, as she re-entered the ward, addressing the nurse in charge.

"No, indeed," she replied; "his mother came last night. You should have seen her! A ragged, dirty tramp, half-tipsy, and not fit to enter the ward. I never saw a more dreadful-looking woman."

"And this one was so different," said the Sister.

"Yes; I don't wonder you took her for Phil's mother, for he could not be more like her if he were her child."

"Poor little boy!" said Sister Kathleen. Then with a change of voice she added, "I hope he will pull through. I have set my heart on his recovery."

The nurse wondered why.

PHIL RECEIVES TWO VISITORS.

THERE were circumstances attending Phil's case that made it one of peculiar interest to the staff of surgeons at the hospital. To save the little lad's life would be a triumph of surgical skill, and they were very anxious to win this triumph. Their efforts, aided by Sister Kathleen's utmost care, were successful. Phil's constitution, enfeebled as it was by want and ill-usage, bore the shock of the amputation, though for some hours afterwards only the faintest hope of his recovery could be entertained. With less careful nursing, he must have slipped away in his extreme exhaustion. Humanly speaking, it was to Sister Kathleen he owed his life.

All immediate danger was over. The boy's pulse was good, his skin cool, and he was sleeping. Without anxiety Sister Kathleen could consign him to the care of a nurse.

"Keep him as quiet as you can, and let me know when he wakes," she said.

Then she went away to take her rest, and was soon sleeping soundly in her own room.

Some hours later she was roused by the nurse. "I am sorry to wake you, Sister," she said, "but what are we to do? Phil's mother is here, and she wants to see him. She says that she has been refused twice, but she will see him to-day."

"How is he?" asked the Sister, wide awake in a moment.

"Very well, and still sleeping. He woke once, and I gave him a little milk, and then he fell asleep again."

"I will come and speak to the woman," said Sister Kathleen, rising at once.

In the ante-room at the end of the ward she found Moll Dutton, standing with her arms akimbo and her head thrown back, her whole attitude expressive of defiance. She was sober, and had made some attempt at tidying herself for this visit, without, however, electing any perceptible improvement in her bold, repulsive appearance.

"I've come to see my boy," she was saying, in harsh, defiant tones, as the Sister entered, "and I'll see him before I go, if I stay here all night. What right have you to come between a mother and her child? How could the sight of his own mother harm him? Ain't he a-hankering for his mother, don't you think?"

Moll's aspect softened somewhat as Sister Kathleen Appeared. And the nurses, who had been listening with some amusement to the woman's tirade, suddenly dispersed to their various duties.

"You'll let me see my boy, good lady?" said Moll in a cringing tone, as she dropped a curtsey. "They told me down-stairs that they thought you would let me see him to-day. You'll have some pity for a mother's feelings, and not send me away again without a sight of him?"

"You shall see him," said Sister Kathleen, "but I must ask you to be content with merely looking at him to-day. He is sleeping, and I do not wish him to be startled or disturbed."

"Surely the sight of his own mother would not startle him," said Moll, with a cunning glance out of her narrow eyes.

But the calm, searching gaze she met made her look down uneasily, as though conscious of the falsity of her words.

Without further parley, Sister Kathleen led the way to Phil's bed. It was screened off from the rest of the ward, and not till they passed round the screen could they see anything of the bed or its occupant. Phil's sleep, as it happened, was over. He had but just opened his eyes, and was resting them with pleasure on the bright-coloured screen, when suddenly, at its farther end, beyond the foot of his bed, appeared the hated form of his mother.

Instantly Phil gave a shrill scream. It seemed less fear than anger that moved him as he cried passionately, with all the strength he could muster, "Go away, you nasty old thing! Go away! I don't want to see you. Sister, Sister, don't let mother come near me. I hate her! I hate the very sight of her!"

"Highty-tighty!" exclaimed Moll, reddening with annoyance. "Highty-tighty, young Phil! This is pretty behaviour. Is this how you speak to your poor mother, who has been waiting about for the last hour, and has missed her dinner in order to see you? It's well you are where you are, or you wouldn't dare to speak to me so."

"I don't care," cried Phil wildly; "I never want to see you again. I wish you were not my mother. Oh, Sister, do send her away!"

"Well, to be sure! You're a nice child!" said Moll, with a coarse laugh, trying to hide her discomposure.

But now Sister Kathleen interposed. She felt that for the sake of Phil, whom this agitation could not fail to harm, she must do as he bade her and send the woman away.

"Go," she said to Moll; "go at once. If you wait outside, I will come and speak to you presently."

Moll dared not disobey. She went without a word.

Sister Kathleen bent over the little boy and spoke to him with soothing tenderness.

"Why, Phil, Phil!" she said. "What does this mean? How could you speak to your mother so?"

"I hate her," cried the boy, between his sobs; "she is a horrid bad woman. I wish she were dead!"

"Oh, hush, hush!" said the Sister. "This is dreadful! Your life must have been very unhappy, my poor little Phil, that you should feel thus towards your mother. But now you must not cry any more."

"You won't let her come again?" he asked, with a nervous shiver.

"No, no, she shall not come near you again. I promise you that."

Phil continued to cry, but less violently. And soon Sister Kathleen was able to leave him and go in search of his mother.

Too brazen to be long abashed by what had passed, Moll was disposed to be insolent and self-assertive.

"You might have done me a better turn than to set my child against me," she said. "A nice welcome, truly, to give his mother!"

"No one has set him against you," said Sister Kathleen, with righteous indignation in tone and look. "You know best what it is that causes him to shrink from you in such fear and dislike. A good mother could never be so regarded by her child."

For a moment Moll looked guilty and cowed. Then, with a flash of fresh defiance in her glance, she exclaimed, "Curse him! He was always a black-hearted little scoundrel, was that young Phil! He has been the plague of my life. And now they tell me that the doctors have cut off his leg, and he'll be a cripple for the rest of his days."

"Yes, it is true," said Sister Kathleen, with a sigh; "he will be a cripple, poor child!"

"Poor child and poor mother, I think," said Moll, in a false, whining tone, with an evil look in her narrow eyes; "a helpless lad is a sore burden for a poor woman like me. Well, well, I'll go, since I see you would rather have my room than my company. I sha'n't be in a hurry to come again to see my beautiful boy, I can tell you."

"I shall be obliged to forbid your seeing Phil for the present," said Sister Kathleen; "so it would be of little use your coming."

Muttering angrily, Moll took her departure. The Sister felt as if she could breathe more freely when relieved of her presence. "Oh, to think," she said to herself, "that that woman was once a little child, and to see what she now is—a monster rather than a woman, so hardened in evil, dead even to the common instincts of womanhood, so utterly a lost soul!"

Phil had another visitor ere the day was over. Sister Kathleen met her on the stairs as she came wearily up the long flight to the ward where Phil lay. The Sister had wondered that she had neither seen nor heard anything more of Phil's aunt. And here she was, looking if possible paler and more unhappy than before, with such a look of hopeless sorrow in her dreamy blue eyes, that Sister Kathleen, eager to give her comfort, said at once, "Ah, you are troubled about little Phil, but do not be afraid. He is doing well, and there is good cause to hope that his life will be spared."

But the woman uttered a low, despairing cry, and such a trembling seized her that she caught at the bannisters to save herself from falling.

"Live will he live?" she said in faltering tones. "O God! I have been praying that he might die!"

"Oh no!" said Sister Kathleen, startled by her words. "You do not know what you are saying; you are overwrought. Come with me; you must rest in my room ere you see Phil."

So saying, she took her by the hand and led her from the public staircase, where nurses and medical students were passing up and down.

Alone with Sister Kathleen in her room, the young woman's composure completely gave way. Sinking on to a chair, she hid her face in her hands and sobbed with utter abandonment.

"It is true," she cried, between her sobs; "I have hoped that Phil would die. I have been praying for it every day since I was here. Would it not be well if God in His mercy would take him to heaven? Think what a wretched life Phil has led with that woman. And what will it be in the future, if he is a cripple? Do you wonder I prayed that he might die? Would it not be better for him? Oh yes, it would be infinitely better for poor little Phil!"

"It may seem so to you," said Sister Kathleen, "but how can we know what will be good for any one? Cannot you trust God to do what is best for little Phil? Not a sparrow falls to the ground without our Father, and is not this dear child of more value than many sparrows? The Love that sacrificed its own life to redeem the world cannot be indifferent to the suffering of any one child of man. Life is full of sorrow and darkness, I know; but there is light, there is comfort, there is healing for its woes in the cross of Christ."

But the sorrowing woman appeared not to heed the words. She was calmer now, but her contracted brow and quivering lips showed that her mind still dwelt on painful thoughts.

"He will be a cripple," she said presently, uttering her thought aloud; "he will be more at her mercy than ever."

"Is it inevitable that he should return to her?" asked Sister Kathleen. "Could any other arrangement be made for him, I wonder? Perhaps if we think it over, we can hit upon some plan."

A gleam of comfort came into the young woman's eyes, but quickly her face clouded again, and she said mournfully, "She would never give him up; he is her child. She has taught him to beg for her, I believe. She would never give him up."

"You think not?" said Sister Kathleen. "Well, it is of no use talking further of it now. Phil will not be able to leave his bed for some time yet; he is likely to be with us many weeks. We will go to him if you feel well enough, Miss —. Excuse me, I do not know your name."

The indirect question brought a deep flush into the young woman's face. She hesitated. There was a perceptible pause ere she replied, in nervous, tremulous tones, "My name is Austen—Lizzie Austen. I am quite well now."

"Then we will go to Phil, Miss Austen," said the Sister briskly. "Am I right in addressing you as 'Miss' Austen? You are not married, I suppose?"

"No, oh no!" was the hurried reply, given with a gasping, half-choked utterance.

Sister Kathleen turned to look at her. How white and frail this Miss Austen looked!

"I can let you see him for a few minutes," said Sister Kathleen, as she led the way to the ward. "I know he will have a welcome for you, though he screamed at the sight of his mother, and begged me to send her away."

Miss Austen responded only by a heavy sigh.

A few moments later, she was seated beside Phil's bed.

There could be no doubt that he was glad to see her. Sister Kathleen was pleased to see the radiant smile with which he welcomed his aunt, and it was good too to see his delight when she opened her basket and lifted out a lovely bunch of hothouse grapes.

There were tears in Aunt Lizzie's eyes as she put grape after grape to his eager lips. How delicious was the cool fruit to his parched little mouth!

Nor did the great bunch of chrysanthemums which Aunt Lizzie had brought with her give him less pleasure. She spread out the flowers before him, and he examined them with delight. There were some of the finest specimens of chrysanthemum culture—great yellow balls, and balls which might have been of snow, so spotless was their whiteness, flowers of deep crimson or of golden brown, and some whose paleness was flecked by the faintest touches of colour. What pleasure it was to Phil to turn them over and compare them, and try to decide which of all this great variety he liked best!

He clung to his aunt, and made a feeble effort to hold her when she spoke of going.

"If only you would stay with me always, Aunt Lizzie, you and Sister!" he cried. "I want no one else. I would like you and Sister always to be with me, and mother never to come near me any more."

PHIL IN HIS "TANTRUMS."

PHIL continued to make progress in the days that followed, though but slowly. Since there was no longer cause for anxiety on his account, Sister Kathleen gave him less of her attention. Other and more critical cases claimed her care, but she did not forget Phil. She felt for him the tender interest a motherly woman naturally feels for one whom she has nursed in pain and peril and helped to bring back to health. Forlorn little Phil, with his blue eyes and yellow curls, had won a secure place in Sister Kathleen's loving heart.

"Poor child, he is worse than motherless," she would say to herself at night when she took her last look at him. "The very name of mother has a perverted meaning for him, and suggests only harshness and cruelty. I hardly think he knows what love means."

And with motherly tenderness in her heart, and motherly gentleness of look and action, Sister Kathleen would tuck the bedclothes round him and press a kiss on his sleeping brow.

Though she tried not to make a pet of Phil, every one saw that the boy was very dear to Sister Kathleen, and the fact had its influence with the nurses. All were disposed to be kind to Phil. He was a favourite with the doctors, and they had a merry word for him as they came along the ward. Phil's sharp, quaint replies often made them laugh.

In spite of pain and weakness, Phil was enjoying his hospital experience, for it was a pleasing contrast to the life he had lived before. He did not fret over his lost limb, nor trouble himself at all about how it would be with him when the time came for him to leave the hospital. He was content to let his life come to him as it would, asking no questions, but living happily in the present, as children do, without looking forward or borrowing any shadows from the possible darkness of coming days.

One would hardly have imagined that the sorrowful experiences of Phil's young life would have left him capable of being "spoiled" by too much notice or injudicious petting. But the natural tendency of childhood to strain to the utmost every indulgence, and tyrannize over rather than obey its elders, was not lacking even in this poor little waif of the streets. Phil's fits of fractiousness did not cease as he grew stronger. His outbreaks of temper became more frequent, till, whenever his wishes were thwarted or any attempt made to control him, a storm of fury was certain to ensue.

Sister Kathleen saw nothing of these wilful moods. With her Phil was always quiet and docile. And for a while, the nurses refrained from telling her how naughty Phil was, and how much trouble he was causing in the children's ward, to which he had been removed as soon as he was able to sit up. But soon they were obliged to make complaint to her, and the Sister, distressed at what she heard, requested that she might be summoned to the scene when next Phil gave way to ungovernable passion.

She was sitting alone by the fire in her private room one afternoon, enjoying the only quiet time she could secure in the midst of her busy day, when there came a tap at the door and one of the nurses looked in.

"Please, Sister, could you come to Phil? He's in one of his furies again. He won't let Nurse Atkins touch him to apply the lotion that was ordered, and he's going on dreadfully."

"I'll come," said Sister Kathleen, with an involuntary sigh, as she rose from her easy-chair.

As she entered the children's ward, she heard Phil's voice raised to its highest pitch. He was struggling in Nurse Atkins' grasp, and his shrill outcries had very explicit meaning.

"I hate you! I wish you were dead! I should like to throw you on the ground and trample on you, and cut off your head and kill you, I should!"

"Phil, Phil!" said Sister Kathleen's calm, clear voice behind him. "What is this I hear? What is it all about?"

The boy's screams ceased abruptly, and he turned upon her a startled gaze. He had not expected Sister Kathleen to appear in the ward at that hour. But it was only a brief pause. The next minute, he began to scream again with renewed violence.

"He won't let me use the lotion because it makes the skin smart," said the nurse, looking helplessly at her superior. "He is always like this now; there is no doing anything with him."

"Leave him to me, nurse," said Sister Kathleen. "Never mind about the lotion. Phil must be taught that we cannot have such behaviour as this."

The nurse loosed her hold of Phil, and he fell back into his chair, writhing and screaming in a frenzy of passion, which was heightened by a sense of its impotence.

"Phil," said Sister Kathleen, bending over him and speaking in her clearest, most decided tones, "I cannot allow you to disturb the peace of the ward by making this noise, so I shall take you away till you get over your passion and feel ashamed of yourself."

So saying, she lifted him in her strong arms and carried him off. Phil struggled a little, but he was too surprised and too full of wonder as to what the Sister meant to do with him to make much resistance.

Straight to her own room Sister Kathleen carried him. There she laid him on her bed, arranging the pillows about him so that he could rest in the half-sitting posture he liked best. She did this without saying a word, whilst Phil stole many a half-frightened, questioning glance at her, and continued to sob. Sister Kathleen left him to himself and sat down again in her chair by the fire, with her back turned towards Phil.

For a while there was silence, broken only by Phil sobbing beneath his breath. Gradually his sobs became less frequent. The storm of passion was over. He was beginning to feel ashamed of himself, and Sister Kathleen's continued silence made him very uneasy. He moved his position slightly, so as to catch a sidelong view of her face. How very grave it was! How still she sat, with her cheek resting on her hand! Phil wondered of what she was thinking. Did she think him very, very bad? He wished she would speak to him. Any words, even the most severe scolding, would be better than this strange, sad silence.

As he waited, each minute seeming as long as half-a-dozen, Sister Kathleen gave a heavy sigh.

Phil leaned nearer, and stole another anxious glance at her. Was it a tear he saw sparkling on her eyelashes? He watched her intently, and tears sprang to his own blue eyes as he saw that Sister Kathleen was indeed crying. There was no doubt about it, for she had taken her handkerchief and was wiping the tears away. Phil could contain himself no longer.

"Oh, Sister, Sister!" he exclaimed, with a sob. "What are you crying for? Is it because I am so bad?"

She turned quickly at the sound of his voice and smiled on him through her tears. "Yes and no, my poor little Phil," she said tenderly. "It is true that thinking of you made me cry."

"Oh, don't cry, don't cry!" he implored her. "I will be good. I won't never be so naughty again."

"I hope not," she said, rising and coming to him with open arms; "I believe you will be good, for I have been asking God to make you good."

She lifted him from the bed as she spoke, and, moving back to her chair, she sat down with Phil in her lap.

And Phil felt strangely happy, in spite of his tears, as he leaned his head upon her shoulder and felt her arms pressed tenderly about him.

"I will be good," he said earnestly. "Don't cry again, Sister; I can't bear to see you cry."

"Then I won't cry," she said, dashing away the tears that yet sparkled in her eyes. "It was thinking of myself, Phil, as well as of you, that made me cry. When I was a little girl, I used to be just as wilful and passionate as you have been to-day."

"You?" exclaimed Phil, as if he could hardly believe his ears.

"Yes, I used often to fly into such passions, and I can remember how patient my dear mother was with me, and how lovingly and wisely she showed me how wrong it was, and helped me to conquer my temper."

"Your mother?" said Phil in a tone of wonder. "Didn't she beat you? I can tell you mother makes me smart, if ever I get into my tantrums with her."

"Oh no!" said Sister Kathleen, with a smile that came accompanied by tears. "My mother never beat me. She was a good and tender mother."

"I wonder what it's like to have a good mother," said Phil, with an air of reflection. "Mine's a precious bad one, I know! Didn't your mother never beat you, not when she was in a rage?"

"She never was in a rage," said Sister Kathleen; "she was always gentle and full of love. Do you know what love means, my little Phil?"

"Oh yes!" The boy's prompt reply took her by surprise. "You are love, and Aunt Lizzie is love. I know what love means."

Yes, Phil could recognise love when it smiled on him, though he had not learned to know it as most children do unconsciously in infancy, softly sheltered by the brooding love which God has implanted in the mother-heart, to foreshadow His own infinite love and pity for the children of men.

"You are right, Phil," said Sister Kathleen; "I love you, and your Aunt Lizzie loves you, but there is One who loves you far, far more than we can. The arms of His love, broader, deeper, and more mighty than any love of earth, enfold your little life. Ah, the thought of that love comforts me when I think of you, dear little Phil."

The child could not understand. He was looking at her with eyes big with wonder.

"You know the picture of the Good Shepherd that hangs in the ward?"

Phil nodded his head.

"Of course," he said, "don't you remember telling me about it?—How the lamb was lost and the Shepherd went out in the cold and stormy night to look for it, and how He found it, torn and bleeding, amongst the thorns, and took it in His arms and carried it back to the fold? And the lamb was so glad and happy to be in the Shepherd's arms again. You said I was like that little lamb."

"So you are, my Phil, a lonely, forsaken lamb, but the Good Shepherd loves you and cares for you."

"Will He come and find me?" asked Phil. "Will He take me in His arms?"

"I think He has found you," said Sister Kathleen; "His arms are about you now, Phil."

"What do you mean?" said the boy, looking puzzled. "I don't see Him or feel Him. Isn't He a real person?"

"Yes, indeed, though you cannot see Him with those blue eyes of yours, nor touch Him with your little hands. He is ever near you, nearer than I am now, ever watching over you and caring for you. Should it not make you glad, Phil, to know that you have such a loving, tender, mighty Friend, always with you to help and bless you?"

"Yes," said Phil slowly, "if I could feel sure that He was with me."

"You may be sure of it. I cannot always be with you, nor can your Aunt Lizzie, but Jesus will never leave you nor forsake you. You can speak to Him at any time, and He will hear you, and if you listen, you will hear Him speaking to you in your heart, telling you how He loves you and asking you to be good because He loves you so. Jesus is grieved when you are naughty, Phil. He wants you to be happy, and you can never be happy unless you try to be good and overcome your temper."

Phil was listening earnestly, with grave, upturned face, and Sister Kathleen went on to tell him how the Good Shepherd had laid down His life for the sheep, laying it down in sorest sorrow, forsaken, scorned, and hated by those for whom He died, yet loving them to the end, and forgiving those who tortured Him with bitter taunt and cruel stroke.

"So you see, Phil," she said, "when we feel like hating people and wishing they were dead, we should remember Jesus, and how He loved and forgave those who put Him to such a cruel death, and we should ask Him to help us to forgive and to love as He did."

"I will try," said little Phil earnestly,—"I will try to be good."

How much of the truth had found a home in the childish mind Sister Kathleen could not tell, as she met the earnest gaze of Phil's blue eyes. There was a sweet, grave look on the little face. Apparently he had forgotten his late trouble in the interest and wonder awakened by her words. The Sister let him stay and take tea with her, a privilege which Phil hailed with joy.

The nurses felt a little doubtful as to the Sister's wisdom in thus "petting" Phil after he had been so naughty. But the boy was so penitent and subdued when he came back into their care that they had no just cause to question her judiciousness. Sister Kathleen's talk with Phil was not without result, as the improvement which from that day was manifest in his conduct clearly proved.

A PLAN FOR PHIL'S BENEFIT.

MANY weeks had passed since Phil, so terribly injured, had been carried into the hospital. Christmas-tide, with its holy, gladdening influences, which are felt even in the wards of our hospitals, since the love of Christian hearts prompts them to make provision for the joy of all poor and suffering ones, had come and gone. The children's ward had been decorated with holly and mistletoe, gay banners and Christmas mottoes, and a large Christmas tree, glittering with lights and decked with toys, had delighted the eyes of the little patients. No child had entered more fully into the joy of Christmas than had Phil.

The Christmas carols which were sung in the ward found a glad echo in the boy's breast, for, if the words were new to him, he could feel that they breathed joy and hope and glad, exulting thankfulness. He too could rejoice in the birth of the Christ-child, for he knew that the Babe born in Bethlehem was the Friend and Saviour of the world, the Good Shepherd, who laid down His life for the sheep.

But now the wintry months were past, and that spring had awakened was evident from the primroses and violets which appeared in the children's ward. Phil's cure had progressed favourably as the weeks went on. With the help of his crutch, he could walk or rather hop about the ward with perfect ease. He would have been dismissed from the hospital a fortnight earlier, had not Sister Kathleen persuaded the doctors to let him remain till his health was more fully established. But now, as she looked at him, she felt with a pang of sorrow that there was no longer a good excuse for keeping him.

In spite of his maimed condition, Phil's general appearance was better than when he entered the hospital. Good food and wholesome living had had their effect. His little face had grown rounder, and there was a dash of colour in each cheek, whilst a happy light shone in his clear blue eyes. How soon the improvement would be lost if he went back to his wretched home and miserable mother!

Moll Dutton had been to the hospital once or twice, to make inquiries concerning Phil and the probable date of his dismissal from the hospital. But she had not thought it worthwhile to climb the long flight of stairs to the children's ward and risk the chance of an unfilial greeting from her boy. Needless to say, Phil was not sorry she kept away.

His Aunt Lizzie came to see him at irregular intervals, and he never failed to hail her appearance with delight. Several weeks had passed since her last visit, when one bright spring day she entered the ward, Sister Kathleen had been looking for her coming, and was scarcely less pleased than Phil to see her enter.

"Phil is still here, I understand," she said, addressing the Sister in panting, breathless accents; "I was afraid I should find that he had gone."

"No, he is still here; he leaves next week. But pray sit down, Miss Austen; you are quite out of breath. I am afraid you are not strong."

"Indeed, I am quite strong," she said hurriedly; "it is only coming up the stairs that has tired me. Ah, here comes Phil," she added, with a start and an involuntary shiver. "How quickly he gets along with that crutch! It makes me tremble to see him."

"Oh, he is very proud of his performance," said Sister Kathleen. "I must not stay with you now, but let me see you before you leave. I want to have a talk with you about Phil."

Phil's aunt readily assented, and Sister Kathleen left her with the boy.

Phil was overjoyed to see the flowers Aunt Lizzie had brought him. Primroses, violets, cowslips, wood-anemones, every treasure of the spring seemed included in the huge bunch which he proceeded to untie and to re-make into little nosegays to be distributed amongst his friends in the ward.

"Do these all grow in the country where you live, aunt?" he asked.

"Yes, Phil," she said; "they grow in the fields and along the hedges in the lanes."

"And may any one pick them?" he asked.

She nodded her head.

"Oh," he cried, "how lovely it must be to live in the country, and be able to pick such flowers every day!"

"Phil," said his aunt, "do you know that you are to leave the hospital next week?"

The boy's face fell. A look of acute distress came to it, and slowly large tears welled up in the blue eyes. But there was no outbreak of passionate rebellion against his fate. Apparently Phil had begun to exercise self-control.

"I knew it must come soon," he said sorrowfully. "Oh dear! Oh dear! I can't bear the thought of going back to mother. If only I had a good mother! But she is so bad and wicked. I hate her! No, no, I must not hate her, but—I can't love her, Aunt Lizzie."

"No," she said tremulously; "you can't love her. Can you love me, Phil?"

"Oh, I do love you," he said emphatically; "I wish you were my mother. You are so good and kind, Aunt Lizzie."

She started as if his innocent words stabbed her, and an ashy paleness overspread her face.

"Not good, not good!" she cried, in tones sharp with pain. "You do not know me, little Phil, or you would not call me good."

"Why not?" he asked, with a puzzled air. "I think you are good. You bring me flowers and all sorts of nice things, and you never beat me or call me names. Why are you not good, Aunt Lizzie?"

She did not reply. She put her trembling arms about him and lifted him on to her lap. Then she pressed his little head to her bosom, kissing the white forehead and golden curls with passionate fondness.

"I am glad you think me good, little Phil," she murmured; "and yet, God knows, I do not deserve that you should. Oh, was there ever a more unhappy woman than I am!"

The child on her lap looked up at her with mild wonder in his blue eyes. She recollected herself as she met his gaze, and forced back her emotion.

"Good-bye, my little Phil," she said, kissing him again and again. "May God watch over you and shield you from harm! If you never see me again, remember me as one who loves you and would pray for you, could prayer of hers be of any avail."

"Oh, Aunt Lizzie, don't go yet!" he cried.

But she set him down and broke from his detaining grasp. Going to a nurse, she begged her to let Sister Kathleen know that she was about to leave the hospital.

In a few minutes, Sister Kathleen came to her, and they had their talk in the Sister's private room.

"You guess, I daresay, that I want to speak to you about Phil's future," the Sister said. "Can nothing be done to save him from his mother's cruelty and neglect? I have been wondering whether it would be possible to find another home for him. Excuse my putting the question, but—you are his aunt—I suppose it would not be convenient for you to take him to your home?"

The question seemed to surprise Miss Austen. She stared at Sister Kathleen in amazement for a moment. Then, as comprehension came, a deep flush suffused her face.

"That is impossible," she said, in low, unsteady tones; "you do not understand. I live with my father. He is an old man, and getting feeble; it would worry him to have a child about."

"Even his grandchild," said Sister Kathleen.

"Phil is not—" Miss Austen began to speak in hurried, nervous tones, then hastily checked herself.

"You do not understand," she said again, after a pause. "I have let Phil call me 'Aunt Lizzie,' but I am not really his aunt."

"Indeed!" exclaimed the Sister, hardly able to believe what she heard as she gazed at the face before her, which, worn and sad though it was, yet seemed to bear a marked resemblance to that of little Phil.

She was puzzled, and longed to ask questions, but Miss Austen's manner gave her no encouragement to do so.

"Since you can give no help," she said, after a minute, "I will tell you a thought that has occurred to me. Some friends of mine have established a home for destitute boys on their estate in Berkshire. It is known as St. Oswald's Farm Home. In this home from eighty to a hundred boys are sheltered. They are taught to farm the land, and to provide entirely for their own necessities, thus learning in addition to farm-work such occupations as shoemaking, tailoring, baking, carpentry, etc. There is a schoolmaster to teach the lads, and a matron to look after their comfort.

"Mr. and Mrs. Jeaffreson's pretty home adjoins the farm, and they take the deepest interest in the boys, and do their best to settle them well in life. Many of them on growing up are sent out to the colonies, where, as a rule, they do exceedingly well. I spent a day with the Jeaffresons last summer, and was delighted with what I saw of the home. The situation is charming, and all the arrangements seemed to me perfect. And now I cannot help thinking what a good thing it would be for little Phil if he could be received into that happy home."

"It would indeed," murmured Miss Austen, with a deep-drawn sigh.

"I have already written to Mrs. Jeaffreson on the subject, giving her particulars of Phil's case," continued Sister Kathleen. "She sends me word that Phil is eligible for admission, and as there is now a vacancy, he can be received at once if his mother gives her consent. What do you think of the plan? Would you have any objection to his going to this home?"

"I!" exclaimed Lizzie Austen in a startled tone. "How could I object?" Then more quietly she added, "I should be only too thankful to know that Phil was happily provided for."

"Then it only remains to get his mother's consent," said Sister Kathleen.

"She will never consent," said Lizzie Austen, with another sigh; "Moll Dutton will never give up the child."

"Do you think so?" said the Sister. "I quite hope to persuade her to agree to my proposal. She seems to have no love for the child; why should she not be glad to have him taken off her hands?"

Miss Austen shook her head. "I hope it may be so," she said, "but I doubt it."

She had risen, and was fastening her cloak.

"Shall you be here again before Phil leaves us?" asked the Sister.

"It is impossible," said Miss Austen sadly. "My father cannot spare me. I had hard work to get away to-day. But oh," she added, with a sudden break in her voice, "I should like to know what becomes of little Phil."

"I will let you know," said Sister Kathleen readily. "If you will give me your address, I will send you word of the result of my appeal to Moll Dutton."

"Oh, thank you," said Miss Austen. She hesitated for a moment, then added rather tremulously, "The address is 'Fairbank Farm, near Danesbury, Essex.'"

"I shall remember," said Sister Kathleen. Then, seeing the gloom on the other's face, she went on to say, "Now don't be cast down about Phil. I have good hope of managing this dreadful Moll Dutton. Why, you are as fond of Phil as if he were not your nephew merely, but your own child!"

What was there in the carelessly uttered words to move the other so? Every shred of the composure Lizzie had been struggling to maintain gave way beneath their influence. She sank on to a chair and broke into uncontrollable weeping.

Sister Kathleen laid her hand tenderly on her shoulder. "You are in trouble, I see. This is more than anxiety for little Phil. Will you not tell me what it is? Perhaps I can help you."

Miss Austen gave an uneasy movement, as if she would shake off the Sister's hand. "No, no," she cried almost wildly; "you cannot help me. No one can help me now."

"Except the one Divine Friend who can soothe every sorrow," said Sister Kathleen gently.

"You mean God," said Lizzie, looking up at her with eyes full of despair; "but even God cannot help me. He cannot undo the past."

"Indeed He can help you," said the Sister earnestly. "The past cannot, I know, be other than it is, but God can annul its evil, and take from memory its sting."

But her words seemed to fall on heedless ears. Lizzie had risen, and was impatient to be gone. She could not speak as she gave the Sister her hand. And save by her warm hand-clasp, Sister Kathleen gave no further expression to her sympathy.

"God help her!" she said to herself, when the frail young form, prematurely bent beneath the weight of hopeless sorrow, had passed from her sight. "If ever there was a sorrow-stricken, despairing soul, that poor woman is such."

PHIL QUITS THE HOSPITAL.

SISTER KATHLEEN had been over-sanguine in her hope of influencing Moll Dutton. That loud-voiced, strong-armed virago was not to be persuaded to relinquish her rights. She came to the hospital bent on regaining possession of the boy, of whose baby face and yellow curls she had made capital. At first, she professed to be moved by motherly affection, and even attempted to fondle Phil. But the boy shrank in terror from her caresses.

"Has he not the more need of his mother's care since he is a cripple?" she asked. "Who could look after him and nurse him like his own mother? It was cruel of any one to wish to take from her her poor lame boy."

But when Sister Kathleen carefully set before her the advantages Phil would enjoy at St. Oswald's Farm Home, and urged her for her child's sake to consent to what was so obviously for his good, Moll's stubborn will asserted itself, and she flatly refused to yield. She abandoned her assumption of maternal feeling, and without shame revealed her true motives.

"Give up little Phil!" she cried. "Give him up now! Not for anything you may say. He'll be worth a mint of money to me, now that he's lost his leg. His baby face and blue eyes, along of that little crutch, will draw the money from folk's pockets. It's rare luck to have him as he is."

"Do you mean to say," exclaimed Sister Kathleen, aghast, "that you can rejoice to make profit out of your child's misfortune? It is horrible, monstrous that you should feel so!"

Moll gave a coarse laugh.

"Maybe, lady, maybe. We poor folks can't afford to have fine feelings, nor to pick and choose our words. I'll make so bold as to remind you that Phil's my child, and you've no right to keep him from me. If he's ready, I'd like to be going, for I can't afford to waste my time."

Without attempting further remonstrance, Sister Kathleen left her in the outer room and went into the ward to summon Phil. Never would she forget the pitiful, beseeching look Phil gave her when she told him that he must get ready to accompany his mother. It was as if he implored her to save him from his mother. But what could she do? She could not keep him against his mother's will.

"I cannot help you, my poor Phil," she whispered; "you must go with your mother. But I know where she lives, and as soon as possible I will come and see you. And you know that the Good Shepherd will be with you. He will watch over you, my helpless lamb. You must pray to Him every day, Phil."

"I will," said Phil earnestly. Then a thought struck him which brought a gleam of hope to his little white face.

"He can do everything, can't He, Sister? Will He make mother die, if I ask Him?"

"Oh, Phil, Phil!" exclaimed Sister Kathleen, inexpressibly shocked. "You do not know what you are saying. It is dreadful that you should think of such a thing."

"Is it naughty?" faltered the child.

"Yes, it is very wrong to wish that any one should die. Pray God to have mercy on her and make her a better woman, but do not pray that she may die."

Phil looked puzzled and thoughtful for a few moments, then he said, "Would it be wrong to ask God to take her quite away, and to give me another mother—a good, kind mother? I don't want her to die, if only she might go right away, so that I should never see her again. May I ask that?"

"Perhaps," said Sister Kathleen, hardly knowing how to reply to the childish question,—"perhaps you may, Phil. God our Father answers our prayers, not according to our requests, but according to our needs. He may not answer as you expect, but He will hear your prayer none the less. And, Phil, whenever you pray, ask for the gift of the Holy Spirit to give you right thoughts and feelings, and to teach you how to pray."

"I will," said Phil again. And then, as she kissed him, he threw his arms about her neck and clung to her, sobbing as if his heart would break.

"Come, come, Phil; this will not do," she said; "you must be brave."

Presently he raised his head and tried to smile at her, but the smile was sadder than his tears.

When it was known that he was going, nurses and little patients crowded round him to bid him goodbye, for Phil had become a great favourite in the ward. One of the nurses gave him a pair of warm mittens she had knitted for him. Phil showed little pleasure at the gift. He held them in his hand for a few moments, looking at them with a very rueful expression.

"Thank you," he said; "they're very pretty, but it's no good giving them to me. She wouldn't let me wear them. The people wouldn't give me any money, don't you see, if I didn't look poor and ragged."

There were tears in many eyes as Phil, moving along wearily by the help of his crutch, quitted the ward.

"Now then, look sharp, young Phil!" cried his mother roughly, as he approached her. "No snivelling, mind. I'm your mother, and you've got to come with me. So make haste, and let me see how fast you can get over the ground with that fine crutch of yours, which is going to bring us such luck."

Without a word, Phil followed her as quickly as his lameness would permit. She caught him in her arms at the head of the stairs and carried him down the long flight. Thus, he disappeared from Sister Kathleen's gaze.

A BURDENED SOUL.

FAIRBANK FARM lay about five miles from Chelmsford, and one mile beyond the village of Danesbury. The farmhouse in which Lizzie Austen was born, and where with the exception of two years her life had been passed, was a low, two-storied house, with ivy growing thickly about it. It stood in the midst of fields, but was visible from the Chelmsford Road, from which the length of a meadow separated it. The shortest way to the house was by the footpath which slanted across the meadow from the stile at one corner to the garden gate. The road for vehicles ran beside the hedge of the cornfield beyond.

Neat iron palings enclosed the house and garden. Only a strip of gravel and a couple of flower-beds lay in front of the house, but the garden stretched beside the meadow to some distance to the left of the house, and covered a large area. It was a grand old garden, where from month to month bloomed almost every flower named in the gardener's almanac. It had a reputation in the country-side. Lizzie's mother had been an enthusiastic lover of flowers, and justly proud of the success that attended her gardening operations. Mrs. Austen's hyacinths, roses, orchids, asters, and chrysanthemums were alike famous, and had taken many a prize at Chelmsford flower-shows.

But now for five summers Mrs. Austen's comely form had been missing from the garden where she had been wont to spend many hours, moving to and fro in her large straw hat, scissors or rake in hand, as she watched and tended with utmost care the plants that were so dear to her. In the old churchyard at Danesbury there was a mound of earth always kept bright with flowers for her sake.

The high character of the garden was maintained after her death. Farmer Austen, without sharing his wife's enthusiasm for flowers, had been proud of her successful horticulture, and in his deep mourning for her loss, it seemed to him due to her memory to preserve with jealous care the plants and shrubs which she had planted, and as far as possible to keep the garden as she would have liked to see it. His daughter Lizzie tried to carry out his wishes, and, though she had never cared for gardening, gave much time and attention to "dear mother's flowers," and to such good purpose that the garden continued to produce some of the finest specimens of each season's flowers that could be found in the neighbourhood.

A silent, sad-faced woman was Lizzie Austen after her mother's death. She had been the brightest, prettiest girl to be seen for many a mile round, but from that time, she was another being. She had the look of a woman with a sad history, yet to her acquaintance at Danesbury, her life-story seemed simple enough.

A high-spirited, somewhat perverse young girl was Lizzie, when, attracted by her pretty face, Mark Warren, the wealthy owner of Danesbury Mill, had come courting her. Her parents would have liked the match well, but Lizzie would not look with favour on her suitor, for Mark, though worthy in character, was rough in manner and blunt of speech, and Lizzie's imagination, excited by indiscriminate course of novel-reading, craved a more romantic lover. His wooing vexed her, and she was beginning to weary of the monotony of rural life. So she begged her parents to let her leave home and go to London for a while, to learn millinery and to see a little of the world.

Farmer Austen had married late in life, and from her infancy, his only child had been to him a perpetual wonder and delight. He could deny her nothing. Nor was easy-tempered Mrs. Austen more successful in the assertion of parental authority. Lizzie always contrived to get her own way, and in this instance, though at first her parents refused their consent, Lizzie by coaxing and pleading at last persuaded them to let her go to London.

Old John Austen won plenty of blame for allowing his daughter to leave home, but he knew how to reply to every hint of disapproval. It was well that Lizzie should go away for a time; well both for her and for Mark Warren. She was going to his cousin, a prosperous milliner at the West End, whom he knew would take good care of Lizzie. Not that he was afraid to trust his girl anywhere. She had a head on her shoulders, and could bold her own with any one. There were not many girls, though he said it that should not, to be compared with his Lizzie. But whilst he spoke thus it was evident that the old man missed his daughter sadly, and was longing for her return.

Lizzie went away early in the year, and in harvest-time she came back, but only for a brief visit. She told those who questioned her that she loved London, and had no mind to settle down to country life again. She looked prettier than ever in her fashionable hat and feathers and her London-made gown. But there was a change in her demeanour that saddened Mark Warren, and made what little hope he had still cherished die out of his heart. She was flippant in speech and restless in manner, and treated almost with indifference the parents who loved her as the light of their life.

Lizzie returned to London, and many months passed ere she was again seen at Danesbury. Her acquaintance did not forget to inquire for her, and always the answer was the same. Lizzie was well and happy, and was coming home-soon. But another spring and summer passed without bringing her, although it was known that her cousin had died, and the millinery business had passed into other hands.

Farmer Austen was beginning to grow feeble, and it was observed that the cloud which was now ever on his brow deepened when any one named his daughter. Mrs. Austen's comely face, too, was losing somewhat of its colour and roundness, and the corners of her mouth had a discontented droop. Then it was rumoured that John Austen had told some one that Lizzie had gone to Paris, to perfect her skill in millinery and acquire the French language. But that she would certainly come home to spend Christmas with her parents. Christmas, however, came and went without bringing Lizzie to her old home.

Early in the year, when the snow lay deep upon the farm, Mrs. Austen fell ill with an attack of acute bronchitis. Till lately, she had enjoyed fair health, and the news that the doctor had pronounced her case hopeless came upon all the neighbours as a shock. A hasty summons was sent to Lizzie. And at last, she returned home, but only in time to be with her mother for an hour or two before she died.

Many persons attended the funeral, for the Austens were widely known and much respected in the neighbourhood.

Curious glances were cast at Lizzie to see what changes time had wrought in her, and how she appeared to bear the stroke of bereavement. It was to be expected that she would look pale and sorrowful, but the change the neighbours saw in her was such as startled them. Could that wan, despairing-looking woman be the Lizzie Austen whose pretty girlish form they had known so well? The rosiness had vanished from her face, her cheeks were thin and hollow. Her eyes looked washed out with weeping, her hair had lost its brightness, and the indefinable charm of girlhood was gone. She was a woman now—a weary, sorrow-stricken woman.

Had a few days of grief had power thus to change her? Was it remorse for neglecting her mother that weighed so heavily upon her heart?

"Depend upon it, she can't forgive herself for staying away so long," the gossips said. "It must have been a dreadful shock to come home and find her mother at the point of death."

Yet, severe though the shock was, it scarcely seemed enough to account for the utter dejection that marked Lizzie's bearing. She did not rouse from it as the days went on.

The friends who came to condole with her declared that they could not make her out. Lizzie had been frank and free of speech in the days that were gone, but now she had hardly a word to say. Their well-meant condolences were received by her with an air of passive endurance, and the questions which they did not hesitate to put obtained but the briefest replies. It was plain that she shrank from each allusion to her past life. When her friends assumed that she would remain with her father for the future, Lizzie said nothing, and her silence was taken as assent.

Lizzie went back to London, however, but only for a week. At the end of that time she returned, bringing her boxes with her; and it was understood that she would not leave her father again.

Her melancholy did not pass away as time went on. No daughter could have been more tender and devoted than she was, but her old father often watched her wistfully, longing to see again the Lizzie of former days. If only she would smile as she used to smile, or utter one of the merry, saucy sayings which once fell so often from her lips!

"Poor Lizzie does fret sorely after her mother," he would say to a sympathizing neighbour; "she's another girl from what she was."

There was no need to tell that to any one who had known her in earlier years.

Lizzie had plenty of work, and no one could accuse her of lack of industry. In addition to the care of the house and garden, the superintendence of the dairy devolved on her. The dairy was a large one, for it was now the most important branch of the farming at Fairbank. John Austen, like most of the farmers in the neighbourhood, had suffered from the bad harvests and general agricultural depression, but he had the good sense to turn as much of his land as possible into pasturage, and was able to make a fair profit by supplying milk to the London market.

Lizzie showed herself a good woman of business, and gradually her father allowed her to undertake more and more of the practical management of affairs. He continued to look after his men and to attend the Chelmsford markets. But, when there was business to be done in London, he was willing that Lizzie, who had no fear of the din and bustle of the city, and was more used to town ways than he, should attend to it.

But though Lizzie was ready to go to London whenever required, it was observed that these visits did not make her more cheerful. If possible, her face was more sad and her manner more hopeless when she came back. And she never took advantage of her journey to town to get a new fashion or a pretty ornament. No one would suppose that she had any skill in millinery, people said, to see the plain, Quaker-like bonnet she always wore. Did she wear it as a penance?

In time, the neighbours grew impatient of Lizzie Austen's continued depression and reserve. Why did she hold herself apart from every one, refusing each invitation to tea-drinking or harvesting, and going nowhere, save that on Sunday mornings she accompanied her father to the little chapel at Danesbury, in which he had held the office of deacon, until, after his wife's death, he felt himself too old and infirm longer to fulfil its duties? As they noted her strange ways and dreamy looks, they began to speak of Lizzie as "peculiar," using the word in a way that might lead those unacquainted with her to imagine that Miss Austen's melancholy had reached the extreme of mental derangement.

Lizzie troubled herself not at all about what the neighbours might think or say of her. There had been a time when she had thought much of their opinion, but now the heavy weight of trouble which clouded her life could hardly be lightened or deepened by words of theirs. Alike in the bright days of summer and the dark days of winter, her heart was full of bitterness. Life might be more endurable on some days than on others, that was all.

Happiness, peace, content—such words had no meaning for Lizzie Austen. To wake at early morn to a sense of hopeless misery, and wish the day over before it had begun; to set about its round of duty with a weary, aching heart that gave its weariness to head and limbs; to give herself no rest, but fill every moment with toil, in the vain hope of escaping from thoughts which yet mingled their bitterness with every action,—such was Lizzie's day.

What greater misery is there for a human soul than to know that one's life is spoiled, utterly spoiled, and that it is one's own wilful folly that has wrecked it; to look along the coming years, whilst their number still seems great, and see no ray of hope, no possibility of escape from the pitiless torture of remorse; and at the same time to remember with painful vividness the happier days that are for ever gone and the good that might have been but for one fatal step; to know, too, that the bitter consequences of one's folly are not suffered by oneself alone, but that another innocent life is blighted by them?

God pity all spirits bowed beneath this intolerable burden! Such an one was Lizzie Austen.

DISAPPOINTMENT.

A FEW days had passed since Lizzie's last visit to the hospital, when about six o'clock one evening, she was in the garden attending to her plants. She was watering some young cuttings that needed special care; but every now and then she paused in her occupation and looked across the meadow at the high road, with the expectation of seeing her father on his return from Chelmsford market. Several vehicles went by, and Lizzie recognised one and another of the neighbouring farmers, but her father did not yet come in sight. Lizzie was rather eager for his coming, because she felt sure that he would call at the post office, and she hoped that he might bring her a letter from Sister Kathleen.

When next she glanced towards the road, she saw a man walking down the meadow path to the house. It was Mr. Fennell, the new minister, who had lately come to officiate at the little village chapel. Lizzie sighed as she set down the watering-pot. She had not exchanged more than the merest greeting with Mr. Fennell since he came to Danesbury, and she had no wish for further intercourse with him. She was sorry he had come now, when her father was not at home to receive him.

"Good evening, Miss Austen," said the minister in hearty tones. His round, somewhat florid face had a very kindly expression, and he shook hands in a way that seemed to show that he would be a good friend.

"I am sorry that my father is not at home, Mr. Fennell," said Lizzie, "but I expect him every minute."

"I am quite content to await his arrival," said Mr. Fennell, with a smile, "for in truth I have come to see you, Miss Austen. I have hardly spoken to you as yet, and I wish to become acquainted with all my flock, that I may if possible win their confidence and friendship."

Lizzie coloured slightly as she murmured, more politely than sincerely, that she was pleased to see him. Then she invited him to enter the house.

"Thank you; if you will allow me, I would rather remain here," said Mr. Fennell; "I am fond of a garden. Pray don't let me disturb you in your work."

But Lizzie let her watering-pot stand empty, and, taking him round the garden, showed him all that it could boast of present beauty or of promise for the future.

The minister was himself an amateur gardener, and he was interested in all he saw. But he took a deeper interest in human nature. The sadness of Miss Austen's face, the contrast between its youthful form and hopeless expression had struck him when first he saw her. He had heard her peculiarities discussed, and knew that she was no favourite with her neighbours, but what he had heard had but excited his sympathy and made him anxious to be her friend.

Now, as he marked her despondent air and heard the low, sad tones in which she replied to his remarks, he said to himself, "Here is one whose heart is crushed beneath a weight of hopeless sorrow. I wish I knew her history that I might, if possible, help her."

But his efforts to win her confidence were not attended with success. Lizzie's reserve did not relax as he talked to her. She would not speak about herself, nor talk freely on any topic save the weather and the garden.

They were in the greenhouse, and she was showing him a remarkable species of cactus, when he said, "Ah, yes; I have seen one of the kind before—in the Jardin des Plantes at Paris. Have you ever been abroad, Miss Austen?"

He was surprised to see the deep crimson flush which his words brought to her face.

"Yes, yes," she almost stammered in her confusion,—"once, a long time ago."

"Ah, indeed! Where did you go?"

"To Paris," she answered, with evident unwillingness.

"A beautiful city, is it not?" he remarked, hardly knowing what he said, so startled was he at the effect of his words.

"Yes," she said hurriedly, "but I saw very little of it. I went there on business."

And, with the manifest purpose of changing the subject, she drew his attention to the state of the vine which was trained across the top of the greenhouse.

Mr. Fennell made a final and bolder attempt to break through her reserve.

"I must be going," he said presently, "but will you first let me say a word to you, Miss Austen? As a pastor it is my duty to inquire into the spiritual welfare of all my flock. I was sorry to see last Sunday that your father came alone to the Lord's Table. You have, I know, been trained in the faith of the Gospel. What is it keeps you from doing this in remembrance of your Saviour?"

The question took Lizzie by surprise. There was a glow of anger in her pale cheek as she half turned from Mr. Fennell in her annoyance.

"Pardon me, if I seem over-bold," he said gently. "Believe me, I speak as your friend."

"I cannot tell you why it is," she said tremulously. "My father is good, my mother was good, but you must not suppose that I am good."

"None is good save God," he replied. "You do not think that any of us would dare to come to the Lord's Table trusting in our own goodness? We come, knowing that we are sinners, to meet with Christ, the Friend of sinners; and no one, however unworthy, need hold back who can come in faith, calling Jesus, Lord. Do you not believe in Jesus as your Saviour?"

Lizzie shrank visibly from his words. She glanced at the house, as if longing to make her escape into its shelter.

"Do not ask me!" she exclaimed, feeling driven to speak. "Religion is not for me."

"For whom then is it?" he asked gently. "Forgive me. I cannot help seeing that you are in trouble, and all sorrowful ones need Jesus. He calls to Himself the weary and heavy-laden. Will you not obey that call?"

"I cannot!" she exclaimed, in a tone the desperate misery of which went to his heart.

"Why not?" he asked. "What is it holds you back? Is it sin? 'This Man receiveth sinners.'"

Lizzie could bear no more. She felt herself on the verge of tears, and, resolved not to give way to emotion, she turned from Mr. Fennell with an abrupt "Good evening."

"Good evening," he said, his voice full of sympathy. "May Christ give you peace!"

Peace! The word seemed to mock Lizzie as she hastened into the house, for like a bitter comment came to mind the words: "'There is no peace, saith my God, to the wicked.'"

She went to her room and sank on her knees beside the bed, weeping as for long she had not wept. But though she took the attitude of prayer, she could not pray.

The sound of her father's step below roused her. She rose, and, forcing herself to be calm, hastily bathed her eyes and went down-stairs.

Her father was calling for her, "Here's a letter for you, Lizzie," he said.

Lizzie took the letter, and a glance told her that it was the one she was expecting. But she fetched her father his pipe and tankard of ale, and stayed to listen to his slow account of what he had heard and done at Chelmsford, ere she opened her letter, though her fingers trembled as they closed over it, and her heart was fluttering with impatience to know its contents.

A fine-looking old man, with snowy hair and keen dark eyes, was John Austen. Though he was getting bent with age, there was still a certain stern dignity in his bearing. Indulgent as he had ever been toward his daughter, he was not generally considered to be a man of mild and pliable temper.

The men who worked for him knew well that it was a serious thing to offend the old master, for he was not one who could overlook a breach of duty or readily pardon a wrong-doer. Above all things, he detested deceit, and any one whom he convicted of telling a lie, or acting in an underhand manner, was at once dismissed from his service. The land he held had been farmed by his father before him, and he was proud of the respect which in that neighbourhood had ever been accorded to the name of Austen.

"No one ever doubted the word of an Austen," he was wont to say. "No one ever knew an Austen have cause to hang his head."

Of late years, there had grown up in Lizzie's heart, intertwined with her love for her father, a strong element of fear. She shivered sometimes at the thought of what he would say or do if he knew certain things which she had hidden from him. She fancied, too, that her melancholy shrinking from the company of others was an annoyance to his pride, as being an approach to that hanging of the head to which the Austens had never been given. Lizzie made an effort to appear cheerful when with her father. She listened now with an appearance of interest to all he had to tell her, till at last, the old man ceased to talk and began to nod as he sat in his arm-chair by the fire.

Lizzie stole noiselessly from the room. She felt sick with hope and fear as with trembling fingers she opened her letter. It was very brief. Sister Kathleen had not time to write long letters.

   "DEAR MISS AUSTEN," she said.

   "You will be sorry to hear that my hope has been disappointed. You were right with regard to Phil's mother. She has refused to give up her child, and she took him away with her last night. Poor little Phil! We must pray the Lord to watch over him.—Yours faithfully—

"SISTER KATHLEEN."

The letter dropped from Lizzie's hand, and she sat gazing before her with dilated eyes. She had not known how strong had been her hope for Phil till she felt the force of this disappointment. No sound escaped her ashen lips, but her spirit was crying out in wild rebellion against her misery:

   "O God! My punishment is greater than I can bear!"

How long she had sat there in tearless despair she knew not, when her father's voice roused her. She rose and tried to go to him, but her trembling limbs refused to support her. She sank fainting to the ground.

MOLL CHANGES HER ABODE.

LITTLE PHIL, as he trudged painfully behind his mother along the London streets, looked back with an aching sense of regret to the days he had passed in the hospital. Moll's voice angrily bidding him move faster warned him that he need expect no kinder treatment from her than he had been wont to receive.

His heart sank low indeed when they reached the miserable alley in which Moll Dutton lived, for at the sight of him, coming along by the aid of his crutch, the ragged children who were playing in the street left their play to point at him and shout derisively. The neighbours, too, showed not the least consideration for the child's feelings, as they freely commented on his misfortune, and his mother led a laugh at his crippled appearance.

Phil, shrinking sensitively from the looks and words bestowed on him, was glad to find shelter in Moll's close, evil-smelling room, hung with secondhand or perhaps third-hand garments in various stages of shabbiness and dilapidation, for Moll was professedly a dealer in old clothes, though she combined with this business other dealings of a less bona fide character. The dim, dirty room, with its unhealthy atmosphere, presented a sore contrast to the bright, airy ward in which Phil had been for so long. He could not have expressed his sense of the change, but he was keenly alive to it, and felt so unhappy on finding himself again in this wretched home, that even his dread of his mother had not power to hold back his tears. Throwing himself on a heap of rags, he began to cry.

"Now stop that!" cried Moll, giving him a smart blow with her hand. "I'll have none of that noise. I'm your mother, and you've got to stay with me and to do as I tell you. And if you don't behave yourself, it will be the worse for you."

Phil was not indifferent to this threat. He choked down his sobs and rubbed away his tears with his knuckles.

His mother offered him some food, but he felt too sick and miserable to eat. She was not distressed by his want of appetite. Without paying further heed to him, she took her own meal, and then set to work to clear the room of the strangely-assorted clothes that hung around it. Phil watched her in surprise as she took down one thing after another, packing as many as it would hold into a box which she dragged from under the bed, and making the rest into a huge bundle.

Phil wondered greatly to see her do this, and at last he ventured to put a question. "What are you doing, mother? Are you going to take them all away?"

"Yes, every rag of them, and you into the bargain," was Moll's reply.

"Me!" exclaimed Phil in alarm. "Where are you going to take me?"

"You'll see fast enough. I'm going to make a clean sweep out of this place. It's not so nice that I should be sorry to leave it," said Moll, with a grim laugh.

"Do you mean that you are going to leave the house?" asked Phil.

"That's it. We clear out the first thing to-morrow morning," returned Moll, snapping her fingers with an air of triumph.

"But why?" asked Phil, looking puzzled and somewhat distressed.

"That's no business of yours," said his mother. "Are you sorry? I didn't know you was so fond of this place."

"I am not fond of it," said Phil. "Where are you going, mother?"

"Never you mind," she replied to him.

And Phil was silent, pondering with a grave, anxious little face this new aspect of affairs. He could certainly feel no attachment to that dismal room, but he did not want to leave it now, for he was counting on Sister Kathleen's promised visit, and the thought that she might come there only to find him gone filled him with pain. But instinct warned him to say nothing of this to his mother, though he did not guess that she was changing her quarters in order that neither Sister Kathleen nor any one who might be interested in him should be able to follow him up.

When she had completed her preparations, Moll went out, leaving Phil to put himself to bed when he felt so inclined.

Alone, Phil could no longer restrain his tears. The return to his former life was even more hard and bitter than he had fancied it would be. As he crouched crying on the floor, there was a tap on the door, and the next moment, the familiar face of Fan the flower-girl was seen peeping cautiously into the room.

"Are you there, Phil?" she asked, for at first she could not distinguish him in the dim light.

"Yes, I'm here, Fan," he replied. "I'm glad you've come. You needn't be afraid, mother's gone out."

Fan was several years older than Phil, but she was his friend, and the boy loved her. He thought her one to be envied, for Fan, ragged and untidy as she appeared, had a mother who looked after her in rough but loving fashion. Phil had seen Mrs. Nankinell take off her shawl to wrap it round Fan's shivering shoulders in bitter wintry weather. And once, when times were hard, Fan had told him how her mother had given her their last piece of bread, refusing to taste a morsel of it. These things had made their impression on little Phil.

"It would be good to have a mother like that," he had said to himself.

"I thought Moll was out, or I should not have come," remarked Fan as she approached the boy. "So you've lost your leg, Phil; that's a bad job, ain't it?"

"Yes," said Phil, with a sigh, "but I can get along very well with my crutch. I wouldn't have minded about the leg if only I could have stayed at the hospital. I was so happy there, Fan. You can't think what a nice place it is. The children's ward is just lovely. There are pictures and flowers and toys, and oh! the Christmas tree! You 'should' have seen that!"

"I know!" said Fan, with a sagacious nod. "It's fine times being in a hospital. I was in one myself once, though only for a few days, but I know I liked it. I wouldn't mind being taken there again, as long as they didn't cut off my leg. I shouldn't like that." And Fan gave a pitying glance at Phil's empty trouser. "But tell me about it, Phil."

Phil was quite ready to relate his experiences, and he talked almost without a pause for the nest half-hour. He said nothing of the pain he had suffered, for already he had forgotten it. But he described to Fan the glories of the Christmas tree and the fun of the Christmas merrymaking, and told her about Aunt Lizzie's visits, and the flowers and nice things she had brought him, and spoke in glowing terms of Sister Kathleen.

"And you say she is coming to see you?" said Fan.

"Yes," said Phil, and then his face clouded as he added, "But oh, Fan, I'm afraid she won't find me, for mother's going away from here. We're to be off the first thing to-morrow morning."

"Going away!" exclaimed Fan. "You don't mean it? Well, she's kept it pretty dark. I don't believe that any one knows that she's about to flit. Where are you going?"

"I don't know," said Phil sadly; "she won't tell me."

"Ah, then, she doesn't mean any one to know," said Fan shrewdly. "She wants to get out of the ken of the folks in the alley. That's her dodge. I say, Phil, I'm real sorry that you're going away."

"So am I," said Phil. "This isn't a nice place, I know, but I'd rather stay here than go anywhere else. Oh, what shall I do if Sister Kathleen comes and can't find me?"

"It would be a pity," said Fan, "but I'll watch for her coming, Phil, and if I can, I'll tell her where you are. Ask your mother again when she comes home to-night."

"It wouldn't be of no use," said Phil. "She wouldn't tell me. And besides, I shall most likely be asleep. I never can keep awake when I want to."

"Can't you?" said Fan. "But I tell you what, if the lady can't find you, you might go to the hospital to see her. You could find the way to the hospital again, couldn't you?"

"Why, yes, I believe I could from here," said Phil, looking pleased with the suggestion. "And if I didn't know how to start from the other place, I could ask the way. Anyhow I'll try. And I'll pray to God about it. Do you ever pray, Fan?"

Fan smiled and shook her head.

"I know what you mean," she said; "I've heard a man pray—the man who used to come last summer and preach at the end of the alley. But mother says that it's of no good to pray. It's only talking to the air, she says, and can't make any difference."

"But it does make a difference!" exclaimed little Phil. "Jesus hears us when we pray, and He'll do what we ask Him. Sister Kathleen says so. I'm going to pray to Him every day."

"So she's taught you to pray, has she, Phil?" said Fan, looking at him curiously. "What are you going to pray for?"

"Oh, lots of things," said Phil; "I'm going to ask Him to take mother away, and give me a new mother—a good one, Fan."

Fan burst into a shrill laugh.

"Well, I never! That's a fine idea!" she exclaimed. "How could you have a new mother, Phil? Moll's your mother, and you'll never have another."

"I daresay it may be difficult to manage," said Phil calmly, "but Jesus will know how to do it."

"Really, Phil!" said Fan, and she laughed again.

But Phil was not to be laughed out of his hope. The talk with Fan had cheered him, and he shed no more tears after she left him, but went at once to bed, where he was soon sleeping soundly.

It seemed to him the middle of the night when he was roused by a rough shaking from Moll.

"Get up at once and put on your clothes," she said in a harsh whisper; "and make no noise about it, mind!"

Moll was already dressed, even to her bonnet and shawl. As he tremblingly obeyed her, Phil saw that his mother had packed up all her small possessions. Outside the house, a man was waiting with a hand-barrow. One by one Moll carried out her few articles of furniture, and with his help put them on the barrow. This was done as quietly as possible, and what noise there was failed to rouse any of the dwellers in the house, who were apparently heavy sleepers. Then Moll bade Phil take his crutch and come along.

With a sore heart, he followed her from the house. It was hardly yet light, and no one was astir in the alley.

An old woman, hearing the cart passing, leaned out of an attic window and shouted to know what was up.

Moll vouchsafed no reply, and, grumbling angrily at having her slumbers disturbed, the beldame retreated.

Phil's slow progress soon roused his mother's impatience, and she began to scold him for not making more haste. But the man took pity on the little cripple, and, lifting him on to the cart, found a seat for him on the top of the furniture. Thus Phil travelled to his new home ere yet the day had fully dawned or the tide of busy life had begun to flow through the London streets.

PHIL HAS A TRYING DAY.

PHIL'S new home was little more agreeable than the old one had been. Moll had gone eastward, and established herself in a miserable tenement in Shoreditch.

Phil was constantly in the streets following his "business," for Moll was anxious to reap as much benefit as possible from his misfortune. At first, she used to accompany him into the streets, for she had some fear lest Phil should attempt to run away from her. But she soon found that the boy would gain more by his begging if left to himself. So she would repair to a public-house close by, or would watch him from a distance, thus managing to make Phil feel that she was never far off, and he could not get away from her if he would.

But after a while, she grew tired of keeping constant watch over the boy, and would send him out alone, threatening him with severe punishment if he did not return at the time she named, and still more cruel treatment if he did not bring her as much money as she expected.

Phil was often to be seen in the City, hanging about the entrances to Liverpool Street and Broad Street stations. In all weathers he was sent out, and it was a hard life he led. There came to be a very sad look in his blue eyes, and a glance at the little maimed form might well make the most cautious forego prudence and drop a copper into his hand. As a rule, Phil met with many who were soft-hearted enough to give to him. But there were days when the police seemed especially on the alert, or when every one appeared in too great a hurry to pay heed to him, for the busy crowds who pass along the City streets are not easily arrested by a call for alms. And when his pockets were light, Phil went back to his mother in fear and trembling.

Several weeks passed ere Phil found his way to the hospital. He had not forgotten his purpose.

He thought of it daily, and longed to see Sister Kathleen again, but fear of his mother, who always questioned him closely as to his doings, for some time withheld him from making the attempt.

At last, when summer had come, Phil had the opportunity for which he had been waiting.

One morning, his mother roughly told him that he had better take himself off till nightfall, as she was going out for the day and would lock up her room.

"And mind that you make good use of the time," she added, "for I shall want a nice supper when I come back, and you must bring the money for it."

Phil needed no second bidding to be off. The freedom thus accorded was as welcome to him as a holiday to a schoolboy. Hastening out, he lost no time in getting away from Shoreditch. It was a bright June day. Even in the City, the heat was not great, and when, leaving the more crowded thoroughfares, Phil found his way on to the Thames Embankment, a fresh breeze met him as he went westwards.

Instinctively, he had turned in the right direction for the hospital. But he wandered on a long, long way without feeling sure that he was getting any nearer to it. What a big, big place London seemed to the little crippled-lad, dragging himself wearily along the pavements! Sometimes he paused to beg of the passers-by or to rest for a while on a doorstep, but though he grew hot and tired and faint for want of food, he was still bent on reaching the hospital.

Asking his way and following as well as he could the confusing directions given to him, Phil at last arrived at his destination, and found himself before the main entrance to the hospital. Trembling from fatigue and fear, he ascended the steps with difficulty, and entered the large hall.

"Now then, what do you want, pray?"

The question, put in deep, severe tones by a tall, broad-shouldered, soldierly-looking man in official livery, made little Phil fairly shake from head to foot. He had never seen this porter before, and the august mien and authoritative air of the dignitary looking down on him from his superior height, with stern disapproval in his glance, took from Phil all courage.

"Please, sir," he could only gasp, "can I see Sister Kathleen?"

"No, you can't," was the abrupt reply. "Sister Kathleen's not here. She has been ill, and has gone away for a change. Now then, be off with you. We don't want any beggars hanging about."

Phil went without a word. The porter's harsh manner so frightened him that he did not dare to put another question, nor even thought of asking to see one of the nurses in whose charge he had been.

He was bitterly disappointed. For weeks, the only ray of light in his sad young life had come from the hope of seeing Sister Kathleen again, and now that hope was destroyed; for it seemed to him as he passed out of the hospital gates that he should never see either Sister Kathleen or his Aunt Lizzie any more.

He made his way to the Strand, which was familiar ground to him, and there began to beg. The child's face was so sorrowful, and his voice had such a plaintive ring, that many a one looked on him with pity and gave him money.

Presently, Phil ventured to exchange one of his pennies for a roll of bread. After looking cautiously around, to see that no policeman was near, he crept into a sheltered doorway and sat down to rest and take his meal. He had not been there many minutes when a girl passed by, carrying a basket filled with little nosegays. As he glanced at her, Phil started up with a cry of delight.

"Fan, Fan!" he cried.

The girl looked round astonished, but she was no less pleased than Phil when she saw who had called her.

"Why, Phil, it's never you!" she exclaimed.

"Yes, it's me," he said breathlessly. "And oh, Fan, I've been to the hospital to see Sister Kathleen, and she isn't there; she's gone away."

"Is she? Why, how's that?" asked Fan.

"The man said she had been ill," replied Phil.

"Dear me!" said Fan. "Well, do you know, Phil, I've seen Sister Kathleen. Many a time I've looked about the streets for you, hoping I might see you to tell you, but neither you nor your mother were ever to be seen anywhere."

"We live a long way from here," said Phil. "But where did you see Sister Kathleen?"

"Why, she came to see you, of course; don't you know she said she would? I happened to be in the alley that evening, and when I saw her coming along so neat and nice in her long cloak and black bonnet, I knew who she was at once. So, when I heard her asking for you, I went forward and told her that you and your mother had gone away, and nobody knew where you were living. She looked so sorry. I saw tears come into her eyes, Phil. And then she said that if I should find out where you were living, she'd be ever so much obliged to me if I'd let her know."

"Did she?" said Phil, looking pleased.

"Yes, she said just that in so many words. Where are you living, Phil?"

"17 St. Bride's Lane, Shoreditch," said Phil. "But you won't be able to tell her, Fan. She's gone away from the hospital."

"Won't she never come back no more?" asked Fan.

Phil shook his head. "I don't know," he said.

"P'raps she will," said Fan; "anyhow, I'll ask some day when I'm passing the hospital. Don't say anything to your mother about it, Phil."

"Oh no!" said Phil, surprised that Fan should think it necessary to say this, since he had no confidences with his mother. He remembered now that it was getting late, and his mother would be very angry if he kept her waiting for supper.

"I must go home," he said, taking hold of his crutch and wearily raising himself from the doorstep. "Come a little way with me, Fan."

Fan agreed, and walked with him to the bottom of Fleet Street, where they parted, and Phil went on alone. By this time he was very tired, and it was all he could do to keep moving on till St. Bride's Lane was gained. It was almost dark when at length he reached home. He went up-stairs to Moll's room with dread, expecting that she would punish him for coming so late. But to his surprise the door was still locked, and his mother was nowhere to be seen. Somewhat relieved, Phil sat down on the landing to await her return. So worn out was he that he had not sat there long ere he fell asleep.

He was roused by some one falling over him in the dark, and then beginning to scold him violently for being where he was. It was not his mother, however, but the woman who lived in the next room.

"Waiting for your mother, are you?" she said, as Phil, recovering from his bewilderment, explained why he was there. "Then you'll have to wait, it strikes me. Your mother won't be home to-night, nor for many nights to come, I fancy."

"Why not?" asked Phil sleepily. "Where is she?"

"Where is she? Why, in gaol, to be sure. She's been taken up for receiving stolen goods from a servant gal."

"Will they keep her there?" asked Phil, too heavy with sleep to comprehend exactly what had happened, but glad to learn that he need not expect his mother immediately.

"Little fear; for it's as clear as daylight that she knew the things were stolen. She'll be tried in a few days, and if they don't give her six months, I'm much mistaken."

So saying, the woman passed on into her room.

And Phil, curling himself up, was soon asleep again.

He woke the next morning with aching head and limbs, and a general sense of weariness and sickness. He picked himself up from his hard couch, and made his way down-stairs and into the street. The hour was early, and the morning air as fresh as it ever was in that narrow street, but it failed to revive Phil.

He dragged himself along wearily till he came to a coffee stall, where some workmen were having breakfast. Phil bought a cup of coffee and a slice of bread and butter. But whilst he drank the coffee eagerly, he found to his surprise that he could not get on with the bread and butter. He was fain to give the greater part of it to a half-starved cur, which, judging him perhaps as uncared for as itself, made friendly advances to him.

Phil had not forgotten the news of his mother which he had heard on the previous night, but it had made such a confused impression on his mind that he almost fancied it was a dream. But he soon learned that it was true, for when he returned to the house, he found the neighbours talking about his mother's arrest. And one and another told him that he need not expect to see her for some time to come. One of the women asked him how he would get along without his mother.

Phil made no reply, but he thought he could get along very well, if only his head would not ache so badly and he did not feel so weak and queer.

The door of his mother's room was still locked, and Phil tried in vain to push it open. But the woman who lived in the next room called her husband to his help, and the man succeeded in forcing back the lock.

When it was known that the door was open, all the inhabitants of the house flocked into the room, eager to look at Moll's belongings. Later in the day came a policeman, who searched every hole and corner of Moll's room, and took possession of certain things he found there. But no one paid much attention to Phil, who hung about, feeling sick and wretched.

When at last the neighbours' curiosity was satisfied, and Moll's room deserted, Phil, conscious of a weary longing for rest, lay down on the bed. And there, alone and uncared for, he remained all day, dozing most of the time, but waking at intervals to a sense of pain and thirst and general discomfort.

A SAD STORY.

IT was true that Sister Kathleen had been out of health, and had left the hospital for a while. But she was better, and, although the porter had not chosen to tell Phil so, she was expected to return to the hospital on the following day. A hearty welcome awaited her there, for she had been missed alike by doctors, nurses, and patients.

As she was resting in her own room, word was brought to Sister Kathleen that Miss Austen had called at the hospital that morning, and, learning that she was expected in the afternoon, had decided to come again later, being very anxious to see her. The Sister was pleased to hear this, for she hoped Miss Austen might bring her news of little Phil, concerning whom she had many uneasy thoughts.

The porter did not think it necessary to inform Sister Kathleen that a little crippled boy had come to the hospital on the previous day and asked to see her. He was only some miserable little beggar, who had no right to exist, according to the porter's ideas, and certainly should not be allowed to trouble so important a person as Sister Kathleen.

The Sister was taking her tea when Miss Austen arrived. In spite of her training to self-control, she started as her visitor entered, so changed was Lizzie Austen. She had formerly looked pale and melancholy, but now there was a brilliant flush in her cheeks, which yet were thin and wasted, the cheek-bones showing their hard outlines beneath the crimson glow. A fire seemed to burn in her eyes, which looked unnaturally large, with dark, hollow circles beneath. Sister Kathleen felt a momentary sense of alarm as she met their wild, troubled gaze.

"How do you do, Miss Austen? I am glad to see you again," she said almost mechanically, in her usual kind manner, as she took her visitor's hand. Even through the glove, the burning heat of the hand made itself felt.

Miss Austen's whole appearance was changed. Her hair was tumbled, her bonnet awry, as though she had attired herself in careless haste. She cut short the Sister's words of greeting with the eager question,—

"Where is little Phil? Oh, tell me, where is he?"

"I cannot tell you; I do not know," said Sister Kathleen.

"Not know! Oh, you 'must' know!" was the impatient reply. "You have seen him since he left the hospital?"

"Unhappily, I have not," said Sister Kathleen. "Within a week of his leaving us, I sought him at the address his mother gave, but the woman and child had left the house, and no one could tell me where they had gone."

A wild cry broke from Lizzie Austen.

"Oh!" she cried, wringing her hands and raising her eyes as if in despairing protest to One above. "God have mercy on me! My punishment is greater than I can bear!"

Sister Kathleen looked at her in wonder and fear. Had trouble disturbed the balance of her mind? Was this strange excitement about little Phil a form of madness?

"Do not speak so," said the Sister, taking her by the arm and leading her to a chair; "you do not know what you are saying. You are overexcited. Sit down and rest. You have been ill, I fear?"

"Yes, I have been ill," said Lizzie, sinking down with an air of exhaustion, and putting her hand to her head as if to still its throbbing; "I have been very ill. They thought I should die, but I knew the rest of death was not yet for me. I cannot die till I have suffered the full penalty of my sin, or till I have made atonement—oh, that that were possible! You think I am talking wildly, but if you knew what a wicked wretch I am, you would spurn me from your presence."

"That I am sure I should not," said Sister Kathleen, anxious to soothe her. "But now tell me about your illness. What was it?"

"Oh, it was all the mind, the mind!" cried Lizzie. "The doctor said so at last. I could not rest; I could not forget. I used to hear little Phil crying and reproaching me every hour of the day and night. Sometimes I fancied that I had him in my arms, and then Moll Dutton would come and take him from me, and I cried and struggled, but I could not get him again. Oh, it was terrible what I endured! Even now I hear Phil's voice at times. I have been wandering through the streets all day looking for him, but in vain."

"You should not have done so," said Sister Kathleen, distressed by the conviction that here indeed was a mind trembling on the borders of insanity. "How could your friends let you come to London alone?"

"No one knew," said Lizzie; "I came away without saying a word to father. I could not rest at home. They will think that the fever returned, and I wandered away without knowing what I was doing. I did so once when I was ill. I wanted to find Phil, and I got up and went out. But some one saw me in the field and brought me back. I was ill for weeks after that."

"But how anxious your father will be when he misses you!" said Sister Kathleen. "Have you thought of that?"

"Yes," said Lizzie, "but I cannot go back till I have learned something about Phil. Oh, do help me, do help me to find him!"

"I will certainly give you all the help in my power," said Sister Kathleen. "But, dear Miss Austen, why are you so troubled about little Phil? Have you heard anything of him since he left the hospital?"

"No, oh no! That is the misery of it!" exclaimed Lizzie excitedly.

She paused and looked at Sister Kathleen, as if hesitating whether she should explain her words. The tender pity of the Sister's glance decided her, for she suddenly rose, and, throwing herself on her knees beside the other, said, in broken, tremulous accents, "Oh, you are a good woman! You will be merciful. I will tell you all; I must speak to some one, or I shall go mad."

"Yes, tell me all your trouble," said Sister Kathleen gently. "Whatever it may be, I am sure that you have suffered greatly."

"Suffered! Oh, verily! You wonder why I am so troubled about little Phil. Listen—I am Phil's mother."

"Phil's mother!" exclaimed the Sister incredulously, believing for the moment that this was a delusion of the poor overwrought brain. "You Phil's mother! It is impossible. Moll Dutton is his mother."

"She pretends to be, but she is not really his mother. Phil is my child. He was born in Paris six years ago."

"You astonish me," said Sister Kathleen. "How can it be? You are not married?"

"No," said Lizzie, in a low, bitter tone, whilst a painful flush suffused her neck and brow; "but I once thought that I was. I will try to tell you my sad story.

"It is about eight years, though it seems to me as if a whole lifetime lay between, since I left home to spend some months in London. My life had been a happy one till then. I was the only child in my home, and my parents loved me far, far more than I deserved. Alas, like too many girls, I did not know when I was happy! I grew weary of country life. I longed to see London, and persuaded my parents, sorely against their will, to let me go for a while to a cousin of my father who was a milliner in the West End. Oh that I had never left my peaceful, happy home! But it is worse than vain to think of that now.

"I came to London, and the fascinations of town life took hold upon me. My cousin made much of me, and encouraged my vanity. She used to tell me that my face was so pretty, it set off any bonnet I might put on for the customers to see. The people with whom I associated were gay and unprincipled, and I fell completely under their influence. Yet I knew better. I knew that there was a life beyond this. I had been taught to fear the God to whom I must one day give an account of my actions, but I put from me the thought of God.

"My heart grew cold towards my parents. I no longer cared to go home. Since those days, I have often wept to think how my indifference must have wounded my mother's heart. But I must hasten to the bitter end of my story.

"In my cousin's business I made the acquaintance of a Frenchman, the traveller for a Paris house. He was a man of thirty, handsome, dark, with polished manners and a gallant bearing, that fascinated my poor foolish girl's heart. His manner told me that he admired me, and soon a warmer feeling than admiration was expressed by his words and looks. He came to my cousin's shop far more frequently than business required, and I was proud to think that I was the attraction that drew him there. I believed that he loved me, and my love went forth to meet his.

"But he spoke no word of marriage for some time. Not till my cousin's sudden death had thrown me into perplexity with regard to my future did he ask me to marry him, but then he urged me to take the step without delay. When I mentioned my parents, and the necessity of gaining their consent, he persuaded me to seal my fate without consulting them. They would be prejudiced against a foreigner, he said, and would certainly oppose our marriage. But if I took the matter into my own hands, and got married, they would soon forgive me for so doing. How could I listen to such persuasions you will ask? Ah, how indeed! I am amazed now to think how weak and foolish I was. Oh, is there greater misery than to look back on the fatal steps so blindly taken, that have made your life a wreck, full of remorse and despair? But I loved that man with a love that knew no shadow of distrust.

"We were married at a registry office one gloomy, foggy day. He did not wish a religious service, nor did I, for deep in my heart I felt that it would be a mockery to ask God's blessing on our union. Yet the prospect before me seemed bright. My husband was well to do. We settled in expensive lodgings, not far from my former place of business. By his desire, I allowed my parents to suppose that I was still engaged in this business, and their letters were sent to me there. I was very unhappy at thus deceiving them; indeed, from the first there was no real happiness in my married life.

"A few weeks after my marriage, my father, who rarely left home, gave himself the trouble of coming to London in order to see me and assure himself that I was well. The remembrance of that day stings me with shame even now, for by my husband's orders, I still hid from him the truth, and had to invent falsehood after falsehood to account for my being at liberty to accompany him about town. I longed yet dreaded to make confession, for I feared that he would never forgive me.

"Already my husband was growing indifferent to me, and soon every sign of the gallant lover had vanished. He was often absent for weeks in Paris, and when left alone, I was sad enough. At last, a time came when he stayed away so long that I wrote imploring him to return, for, weak and depressed, I could not bear the loneliness longer. He wrote in reply, saying that he did not intend to return to London. He had obtained a fresh business appointment in Paris, and should reside there for the future. I was at liberty to make what plans I liked for my future. He enclosed a sum of money for my immediate necessities, and advised me to return, after a while, to the business in which I had been formerly engaged.

"The letter came to me like a cruel blow. It bewildered me utterly. I could not understand it. Surely, if he were going to live in Paris, I must live there too. Was I not his wife? What could he mean by advising me to return to business? As I pondered his strange words, my bewilderment increased. I could not rest without an explanation, nor would I be content with a written one. Though I shrank from the wearisome journey, I resolved to go to my husband without delay. Excitement gave me strength for what I had to do. Within twenty-four hours of my receiving his letter, I was in Paris.

"Never can I forget how my husband received me when I arrived at the house where he was living. My husband, I say, but he met me with the astounding news that he was not my husband. A marriage contracted by English law in London meant nothing in Paris, he said. He was sorry for me, but his parents would never consent to his marrying an Englishwoman. I had no legal claim upon him, and we must separate.

"I was confounded; I could not believe that his words were true. But in vain I declared that I was his lawful wife, and pointed to the ring upon my finger in attestation of the fact. In vain I sobbed and pleaded with him to have mercy on me. He was not to be moved to acknowledge me as his wife. With cold, hard cruelty, he made me aware of my deplorable position, and then required that I would quit the house in which I had no right to be sheltered. Heart-broken, I left him, and went out alone into the streets of Paris.

"I cannot dwell upon the misery of the days that followed. Alone and friendless in Paris, knowing little of the language, I felt utterly forsaken. A kind-hearted Frenchwoman, to whom I was led to confide my sad story, advised me to seek advice at the British Embassy. I went there, but, though kindly received, could find no redress. They told me that my experience was a common one. The man I had believed to be my husband had spoken the truth. By the cruel French law, I was not his wife, and had no right to call myself so. He was at liberty to repudiate me.

"I went back to my lodgings feeling crushed and hopeless. On the following day, my child was born. I made no second effort to move the heart of the man who had so wronged me. As soon as I was able, I left Paris without seeing him again.

"Dark and hopeless the future looked to me, when with my helpless babe I arrived in London. I felt little love for my child then. I thought only of how I could find some one to take charge of him, and thus set me free to seek employment. I took a lodging in a poor neighbourhood, for my funds were getting low, and thus I met with Moll Dutton. I had known her before. She used to come to my cousin's to buy cast-off clothing. Her appearance was more respectable than it now is, yet I suspected that she was a bad, unprincipled woman. Somehow she beguiled me into telling her my story, and when she offered to nurse the child for me, I scarcely hesitated ere I gave him into her care. He was a sickly little creature, and—God forgive me!—I hoped he would not live, for I felt my child to be a burden from which I longed to be free.

"With a view to inquiring whether they had an opening for me, I went to the house of business formerly conducted by my cousin. There I found a telegram which had been awaiting me for a couple of days, as no one knew where I was. My mother was very ill, it said, and I must return home at once if I would see her alive. I had written to my father before leaving London, to tell him that I was going to Paris, but since then I had let him know nothing of my movements. I led him to believe that I had gone to Paris to make purchases and study the fashions.

"As soon as I recovered from the shock of this sad news, I telegraphed to say that I would come home without delay. Leaving my babe in Moll Dutton's care, I started by the next train, and at nightfall reached my home. Oh, the bitterness of that return! I had thought that I would throw myself at my father's feet and confess all as soon as I crossed the threshold. But when he met me with tenderest greeting, and gently told me that my mother was dying, my words were stayed. I stood by my mother's bed. She could not speak, but she knew me, and smiled on me ere she passed away. As I watched her die, it gave me inexpressible anguish to think how I had deceived her. If only I could have died too!

"Whilst her still form lay within the house, and on the day when we committed it to the ground, I kept my secret locked within my breast. My father saw how wretched I was, but he imagined that it was natural grief for my mother's death which bowed me so low. He mourned her loss deeply, and when he implored me never to leave him again, I had not the heart to say that I must do so. Every one took it for granted that I should now settle down at home; and I wished that I were free to do so, for I had seen enough of London now.

"I returned to London at the end of a week, but I promised my father that I would soon come back to him.

"I went at once to Moll Dutton.

"Can you understand the temptation it was to me, when she offered to take the child off my hands and bring him up as her own, if I would pay her down a certain sum of money? No! You cannot understand it, but to me her proposal seemed to offer such relief. I dreaded my father's anger if he should learn how I had deceived him. I knew how keenly he would feel the disgrace of my false marriage, and I shrank from the shame that would be mine if our neighbours at Danesbury knew that I was a mother, yet had no legal right to the name of wife. So I caught at Moll's suggestion. I had little difficulty in raising the sum she mentioned, for my mother had left me money, but I had to tell more lies to my father to account for my wishing to realize it so quickly.

"With hard, selfish haste the compact was sealed. I made over my child to Moll Dutton, to be from henceforth her child, with whom I would never interest myself more.

"But when I thus gave him up, the instincts of a mother asserted themselves, in spite of my selfish will, and my heart was torn with pain. Moll took care not to let me see my child again. I paid her the whole sum agreed upon, and she went off with the child, I knew not whither.

"But now I was to learn at what a cost I had purchased my liberty.

"I went home to my father, and tried to be a dutiful daughter, but from that day I knew no peace. The maternal affections Nature had implanted in me were not to be stifled. Day and night my heart cried out for my babe. It was torture to me to know that somewhere in London he was living, bereft of my love and tenderness. This secret sorrow was almost more than my mind could bear. I saw that the neighbours looked on me with wonder, and deemed my ways strange; I knew that my father was distressed by my constant melancholy, but in vain I tried to overcome it. The misery I had brought upon myself seemed greater than I could endure.

"As often as I had an excuse for so doing, I came to London for a day. And as I walked along the streets, I found myself looking about for my child, forgetting that if I met him he would be changed past recognition.

"At last, when some years had passed, and time had failed to reconcile me to my sorrow, I began to make determined efforts to trace Moll Dutton. By a strange chance, I discovered where she was living. I went to the house one day when she was out, and found my boy, grown into the little Phil you know. I saw, alas! that he was sadly neglected. Ah, what I suffered as I held him in my arms! I could not take him away, even if Moll would have given him up. It seemed impossible to escape from the meshes of evil I had woven about my life.

"When Moll came back and found me with him, she was very angry, and told me I had broken my word, for I had promised never to interfere with him.

"I pacified her with a gift of money, and she promised to treat the child more kindly, and to let me know if he were ill or wanted anything. I had little hope that the promise would be kept, though I could see that Moll was very anxious to retain the child.

"I did not know till afterwards how wickedly she made gain of him, keeping him ragged and ill-fed in order that his appearance might attract pity and bring her money. After this visit to little Phil, I was more wretched than before, for I knew that to spare myself pain, I had doomed my child to a life of suffering. Again Moll Dutton moved away, and I lost all knowledge of her.

"I heard no more of my little Phil until last November, when, to my surprise, one day I received a letter from Moll Dutton telling me that Phil was ill, and asking me if I would not send her some money to meet the expenses of his illness. Instead of sending money, I went to London that very day, and found my way to the address from which Moll had written. Her letter was a ruse to get money, and by answering it in person, I defeated her purpose. She was forced to own that Phil was not with her, and I drew from her the truth that he had met with an accident and was lying in this hospital.

"I could not resist the hungry longing I had to see my child again. I came here, and to my joy he had not forgotten me, but welcomed me gladly, calling me by the name I had taught him was mine—'Aunt Lizzie.' But you know the rest—you know now why I was so unhappy at the thought of Phil's going back to his miserable life with Moll Dutton."

"Yes, I know now," said Sister Kathleen gently; "I understand many things that puzzled me at the time. Oh, what you must have suffered under this concealment! With all my heart I pity you."

NEWS OF PHIL.

LIZZIE AUSTEN had told her story in a quiet, hard tone, resolutely suppressing emotion, and Sister Kathleen had refrained from interrupting her with question or remark. But now, beneath Sister Kathleen's gentle sympathy, the restraint she had put on herself broke down. She gave one look into the kind eyes, full of tears, which were bent on her, and then bowed her head on the Sister's lap and burst into heavy sobs.

"Oh, it is good of you to pity me. You might well despise me, loathe me, for being what I am—a woman who has cast off her own child, and doomed it to suffering to screen herself. How can you endure to look upon such a heartless wretch?"

"Not heartless," said Sister Kathleen, throwing her arm around the slight, frail form, shaken with sobs, "not heartless, or you would not have suffered as you have. Oh, I pity you, but the Lord Jesus pities you far more. He is very sorry that you have brought such misery upon yourself; for, though you have been cruelly wronged, it was, as you acknowledge, your own self-will that led you into the snare."

"True, true," said Lizzie mournfully; "it was all my own fault—that is the misery of it. But how can you say that the Lord is sorry for me? Is He not angry with the wicked? Surely His anger must be fierce against me—a woman who has been false to her most sacred trust. Oh, do you know the words,—

"'Can a woman's tender care
  Cease towards the child she bare?'

"That hymn is often sung at our chapel, and whenever I have heard it, I have felt wild with shame and misery to think what a vile, heartless wretch I was."

"But think of the comfort of the truth it sets forth," said Sister Kathleen; "a mother's love may fail, but the Lord's love is unchanging. More tender, more compassionate than the heart of a mother is the heart of Jesus Christ, our Saviour. No one has such pity for human sorrows, no one judges so kindly of human sins.

   "'Come unto Me, ye weary,' He says, 'and I will give you rest.'"

"I am weary enough," said Lizzie, in a low, hopeless tone, "but there is no rest for me.

   "'There is no peace, saith my God, to the wicked.'

"You do not know how those words have haunted me."

"There is indeed no peace for the wicked," said Sister Kathleen, "but there is pardon and peace for those who turn in penitence to the Saviour.

   "'He that covereth his sins shall not prosper; but whoso confesseth and forsaketh them shall have mercy.'"

"I have covered my sins, I know," said Lizzie, "but what would you have me do? My father would never forgive me if he knew."

"Nevertheless, you must tell him all," said Sister Kathleen.

"Impossible!" exclaimed Lizzie, starting up. "Do not ask me to do that. I could not tell him now, after hiding the truth for so long—it would be impossible!"

   "'If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins,—'"

said the Sister. "There is no blessing promised to those who hide their sin."

"I know, I know!" cried Lizzie, wringing her hands. "That is what the minister said. He came to see me when I was ill, and he kept telling me that I must confess my sins. I believed he guessed that I had some dark secret. But how can I confess? You do not know how bitterly my father feels towards any one who deceives him. It would make him wretched to know that his own child had deceived him. And he is an old man—the shock might kill him."

Sister Kathleen was silent. She felt how hard and painful this first step towards a better life would be, but it seemed to her the only right step.

After a few moments, Lizzie said, in tremulous accents, "You think me very wrong?"

"I am very sorry for you," said Sister Kathleen; "tell me, have you confessed your sins to God?"

"I have tried to," said Lizzie brokenly, "but my heart seems cold and dead. I have no hope—I cannot pray."

"When you have told your father all, you will be able to confess your sins to your Father in heaven," said Sister Kathleen. "And how about your little Phil? Can you do your duty by him if you continue this course of concealment?"

"God help me!" cried Lizzie wildly. "My little Phil! I must find him, I must have him in my care. I should have done so differently by him if I had not been afraid of my father's learning the truth. Moll knew that I was most anxious to keep it from him, and she used to threaten that if I broke our agreement and took Phil from her, she would go down to my home and tell my father all. And I believed she would do it!"

"What a miserable thing for you to be so much in that woman's power!" said Sister Kathleen. "But you cannot let this state of things continue. God will help you, if, trusting in Him, you resolve to do the right, whatever it may cost you."

Again there was silence. Lizzie had turned away, and her face was hidden in her hands. Presently she raised it, and asked again, "What would you have me do?"

Sister Kathleen had no hesitation in replying, "Return without delay to your father, who must be sadly anxious about you. Tell him all without reserve. Tell him that you mean to seek little Phil, and when you find him, to fulfil henceforth the duties of a mother to him."

"I dare not," said Lizzie; "and I want to find little Phil. I cannot go back till I have seen him."

"You must go back," said the Sister firmly; "you cannot seek him to-night. I will send some one to make inquiries about him to-morrow, and will let you know the result. I implore you not to add to your trouble by further concealment. Do what is right now, and God will be with you. There is forgiveness and peace and a new life before you, I trust, if you will but abandon your false position."

Lizzie Austen did not immediately reply. Her face was again hidden in her hands. The Sister hoped that she was praying for strength to do the right.

Presently Lizzie looked up, and said in quiet, firm tones, in marked contrast to her previous excitement of manner, "I will go home, and I will tell my father all. Whatever the result may be, I cannot suffer more than I have suffered."

"It will cost you much to do so, I have no doubt," said the Sister, "but in the end, you will be thankful that you have made the effort."

Lizzie had risen, and was preparing to go out.

Sister Kathleen hastily put on her cloak and bonnet, saying that she would go with her to the station.

Lizzie tried to dissuade her, in vain. And when they went forth into the streets, she found herself so weak and tremulous that she was glad to lean on her companion for support.

"Will you pray for me?" she whispered, as the train was about to start.

"Indeed I will," said Sister Kathleen; "and for Phil too. May the Lord be with you both!"

Sister Kathleen walked back from the station musing on the sad history she had heard. As she re-entered the hall of the hospital, her glance fell on an untidy, ill-dressed girl, with a basket of faded flowers on her arm, who stood there engaged in rather stormy altercation with the porter.

As she saw the Sister, the girl darted forward, exclaiming, "Ah, you are the lady who came to see Phil."

"Yes, and you are the girl who told me he had gone away," said Sister Kathleen. "Have you brought me news of Phil?"

"I met him in the street yesterday," said Fan; "he'd been here to see you, but they told him—" here the girl darted an indignant glance at the porter—"that you'd left the hospital. Poor Phil was sore cut up about it."

"Oh dear! I am very sorry that he missed me," said the Sister. "Did he tell you where he was living?"

"Of course," returned Fan; "that's what I've come to tell you. He lives at 17 St. Bride's Lane, Shoreditch."

"Oh, I am very glad to know this!" said Sister Kathleen, her face lighting up with pleasure. "Thank you so much for bringing me the news. You have done a kindness both to me and Phil."

She put some money into Fan's hand as she spoke, but the sweet smile with which she thanked her was the flower-girl's best reward.

PHIL'S PRAYER IS ANSWERED.

SISTER KATHLEEN'S hospital duties made it impossible for her to seek Phil as early as she would have liked on the following day. Without delay, however, she despatched a telegram to Lizzie Austen to inform her where Phil was to be found.

But in less time than she could have made the journey from Chelmsford after receiving the telegram, Miss Austen appeared at the hospital and requested to see Sister Kathleen. As she glanced at her downcast, miserable face the Sister guessed what had happened.

"I have told him," Lizzie said, with quivering lips; "and he has cast me off, as I knew he would. He says I have disgraced him and disgraced my mother, and that he wishes I were not his daughter, and he never wants to see me again. Oh, my heart feels like to break when I think of the hard things he said."

She struggled for a few moments to maintain her composure, but in vain; the sobs would come.

"I am very sorry for you," said Sister Kathleen gently, "but you must remember how unprepared your father was to receive such a confession. It must have given him a severe shock, and it is not strange that he should utter hasty words in his anger and grief. After a time, he will repent of what he said."

Lizzie shook her head.

"I cannot think so," she said; "you do not know my father, and how he scorns all underhand ways. He will never forgive me for deceiving him. And he loved me so. Oh, if my father is so hard upon me, how can I hope that God will forgive me?"

"God is infinitely more pitiful than man," said Sister Kathleen; "He will forgive you for Jesus Christ's sake. And now, as a token that God is merciful, I have good news for you. I have heard where Phil is living."

The unhappy mother sprang from her seat, exclaiming eagerly,—

"Oh, my child! My little Phil! Where is he? I must go to him at once."

"He is at some distance from here—in Shoreditch," said Sister Kathleen. "We will go together in search of him, if you are sure you feel equal to the undertaking."

"I am strong now," said Lizzie; "the thought of seeing my child gives me new life. Oh, let us lose no time."

Sister Kathleen hurried her preparations, and in a short time, they were seated in a cab, being driven towards the City. The driver had difficulty in finding St. Bride's Lane. But at last, after some tiresome driving to and fro, they entered the narrow street and alighted at the door of No. 17.

"Does a woman named Dutton live here?" inquired Sister Kathleen of the idle, slatternly women who gathered about the door to see the ladies alight from the cab.

"Moll Dutton? To be sure she did live here, but she's not here now."

"Not here! Oh, where is she?" asked the Sister, in disappointed tones, whilst Lizzie's heart sickened in new despair.

"Oh, only in gaol. Moll was not too particular how she came by things, and the police found her out at last. She had stolen things on her person and in her room. She was a deep one, was Moll, but she's caught at last."

There was a strange mingling of admiration for Moll's cunning, with satisfaction at its defeat, in the tones of the woman who gave this explanation.

"But she had a child—a little boy; what became of him?" asked Sister Kathleen.

"Oh, Phil, the little cripple. He's here somewhere. I say, where's Phil? Has any one seen him?"

No one answered. Apparently Phil had not been seen of late.

"Happen he's up in his mother's room," said one. "We've children enough of our own to look after here without troubling about other folk's brats, let alone a gaol-bird's."

Sister Kathleen stayed but to ask where Moll's room was, and then hurried up the narrow, dirty staircase, closely followed by Lizzie Austen.

"Phil," called the Sister, as she opened the door of Moll Dutton's close, disordered room. "Phil, are you here?"

There was no reply. Phil's mother pushed past her into the room. A cry broke from her as she saw on the bed a tiny form stretched motionless.

"My child! My child!" she cried. And then, as he did not stir, "Oh, is he dead? Have I come too late?"

"He is not dead," said Sister Kathleen, pushing her gently aside and bending over the child. "He has fainted, I think. Fetch me some water quickly, if you please. And open the window. Ah, there! He is beginning to revive."

As she bathed his brow and moistened his lips, the child opened his eyes and looked with dazed vision at the kind face bent on him.

"Do you know me, Phil?" she said.

"Sister," the boy murmured, and then his heavy eyelids drooped again.

His mother began to sob.

Sister Kathleen turned upon her almost sharply.

"This is no time for crying. Run quickly and get milk and bread. The poor child has been left to himself all day, and is faint for want of nourishment, I believe."

In an instant, Lizzie was gone. With all speed she returned, bringing the food.

Sister Kathleen broke off a morsel of the bread, dipped it in the milk, and held it to the child's lips. The lips closed over it feebly at first; then eagerly the food was taken. She held the cup to his lips, and he drank eagerly, uttering a faint protest when she withdrew it. A more life-like colour was creeping into the little face. There was a look of satisfaction in the blue eyes as they met Sister Kathleen's.

"You know me, Phil?" she said again.

"Yes, Sister Kathleen," the child said faintly. "I asked Jesus to make you come."

"Yes, He has led me to you," said the Sister. "I would have come before, my poor little Phil, if I had known you were alone here, and so ill."

"Yes, I'm very ill," said the child quietly, "but I don't mind now. You'll soon make me better, Sister."

"If it please God, I will," she said brightly, as she felt his thin, hot hand.

Phil moved his head slightly and tried to look about him.

"Where's mother?" he asked in a whisper, whilst a look of fear came into his eyes.

Low as the words were uttered, his mother heard them.

"I'm here, Phil, here!" she cried, bending over him and drawing him to her bosom, whilst she kissed with passionate fondness the little white face. "My precious child! You are mine now, and I will never give you up again."

Phil looked startled and amazed for a moment. But when he saw whose face it was bent so close to his, a smile broke over his own.

"Why, you're not my mother!" he said. "You're Aunt Lizzie. Oh, Aunt Lizzie, I am so glad you are come!" Then, with a feeble little laugh, he added, "Mother would never have kissed me like that."

"God bless you, my own poor forsaken child!" she sobbed. "May He forgive me for my wickedness!"

"Why are you crying, Aunt Lizzie?" he asked, in wonder. "Oh, you are not going to leave me yet!"

Sister Kathleen had drawn back out of sight, and Phil saw only the face of his mother gazing tenderly on him through her tears. He thought the tears meant that she was about to bid him farewell.

"I will never leave you more, my child. Listen, Phil, I am your mother. Moll Dutton was not really your mother. You are my own dear child, whom God gave to me, but whom I wickedly forsook."

Phil looked at her in bewilderment.

"You my mother! How can that be?" he said. "Moll Dutton is my mother, and a bad mother she is too. She's away now, but she'll come back again, and then she'll beat me for getting ill. You'd better go away before she comes, Aunt Lizzie; for she's awful when she's in her tantrums."

"I'll not go from here, Phil, unless I take you with me. I'll never leave you again. It is true, although you cannot understand it, that I 'am' your mother. God made me your mother."

"Did He?" said the boy, still puzzled. "But she won't let you have me, I know. She'll want to keep me to beg for her."

"She 'must' let me have you, Phil. You are my child. Moll Dutton has no right to you but that I gave her. It's true, my child. Ask Sister Kathleen; she will tell you it is true."

"Yes, Phil, you may believe it," said Sister Kathleen, coming forward and laying her hand on Lizzie Austen's arm; "this is your mother. Moll Dutton will have nothing more to do with you."

A gleam of joy lit up the little wasted face.

"Oh," he cried, his weak tones quavering with delight, "I can hardly believe it, but it has all come round as I prayed that it might. Fan said it couldn't be, but I knew that God could manage it. He has taken away my wicked mother and given me a good mother."

"Not a good mother, Phil," cried his mother, breaking again into sobs; "a wicked mother—the worst mother that ever was—a mother who could cast off her own child and leave it to suffer! God knows I do not deserve to have you in my arms this moment."

Little Phil looked distressed at her emotion.

"But you'll be good," he said; "I know that you'll always be good to me."

"I want to be good," she sobbed. "Thank God, there is hope for the chief of sinners through Him who died upon the cross to save us. I'll ask God every day to give me His Holy Spirit for the sake of Jesus Christ, and to help me to be a good mother to you. Oh, if I could only atone to you for my past neglect!"

"And you'll never leave me, Aunt Lizzie?" he said.

"Never as long as I live," she replied. "But, Phil, you must call me mother now."

"Must I?" he said, looking troubled. "I'd rather call you Aunt Lizzie. I don't want to think of mother any more."

His mother winced as from a blow. Phil's words gave her exquisite pain. Here was one bitter result of her sin. The very name of mother had for Phil a cruel sound. The tie between parent and child, which she had wickedly dared to break, could never now be perfect, as it might have been. All his life long, Phil would retain the memory of his early years of hardship and pain. In his poor crippled body, he would bear a lasting memorial of his mother's sin. Would not the day come, she asked herself with keenest anguish, when he would reproach her for his being as he was?

PARDON AND PEACE.

SISTER KATHLEEN had soon to return to the hospital, but Phil's mother remained with him. The Sister sent her such things as Phil most needed, and she stayed there in Moll Dutton's miserable room till he was well enough to be removed to a pleasanter dwelling. The feverish attack had brought the child very low, but under his mother's care, he soon began to mend. And in less than a week, they moved to some clean, nice rooms which Sister Kathleen had taken for them at no great distance from the hospital.

Here Lizzie Austen settled down to a quiet, lonely life of devotion to her child. The income she derived from the property her mother had left her could with care be made to suffice for the wants of herself and Phil.

To the boy, his new life gave unmixed satisfaction. It was delightful to have Aunt Lizzie always with him, ready to nurse him, pet him, amuse him to his heart's content. Not that he made great demands on her attention. It was joy enough for him at first to know that he need not go forth to beg, and he was quite content to sit and watch his mother as she sat sewing, sewing always on some garment for him. He wondered sometimes why she was not so happy as he. For, though she tried hard for his sake to be cheerful, Lizzie often sighed as she sat sewing, and at times he saw tears drop upon her work.

Many a painful thought disturbed his mother's heart as she bent over her sewing. The memory of the past still stung her. She could not look upon her little crippled Phil without remembering that if she had been true to her maternal responsibilities, her boy might now be whole and strong. She could not think without pain of the feeble old man upon whose declining days the knowledge of her wrongdoing had cast so dark a shadow. She could fancy him passing long, lonely hours with no one to render him the little services it was a daughter's right to perform. He would sit alone, brooding over his wrongs and hardening his heart more and more against her, even whilst he yearned for her presence.

Oh, how Lizzie longed for some tidings of her father as the weeks went on! Once she ventured to write to him, but no answer came, though she looked for it from day to day, and from week to week, till her heart grew sick with hopeless longing whenever she saw the postman coming down the street.

Time passed on. Summer and autumn had fled, and Christmas was close at hand. But still Lizzie was living her sad, quiet life, finding comfort only in her boy, who clung to her with a warm love and trust which consoled her, whilst sharpening the sting of self-reproach.

Phil was looking forward to the joys of Christmas. Sister Kathleen had invited him to the merrymaking at the hospital, and Phil was full of delight at the thought of the Christmas tree and the good time he would have. He caught up the tunes of the Christmas carols and sang them lustily, till his mother's heart ached to hear him, for these old songs had sad associations for her.

Fan too was to have a happy Christmas. Phil had not forgotten his old friend. He had spoken of her to his mother, and Lizzie was ready to do all in her power to befriend the girl who had been kind to her little Phil when he so sorely needed a friend.

She had taken pleasure in preparing Christmas cheer for Fan and her mother, and presents of warm clothing that would be serviceable to them long after Christmas Day had gone by.

But Lizzie's sorrow grew heavier as Christmas approached. When the memory of the Saviour's birth was kindling in Christian hearts more and more of good-will towards others, it seemed especially sad that her father's heart should be alienated from her. She could only pray that God would soften his feelings towards her.

It was the 24th of December. Lizzie, standing at her window, was watching the postman as he passed down the street. Though she watched him, she had no hope that he would bring her a letter. Even when she saw him cross the road and heard his knock on the door below, she did not think that the letter could be for her, though her heart began to beat more quickly at the mere supposition.

A few moments later, however, there was a tap at her door, and her landlady looked in to say, "Here's a letter for you, Mrs. Austen."

Lizzie took the letter with eager haste. Yes, it bore the Chelmsford postmark; here was news of her father at last.

The letter was from Mr. Fennell, the minister at Danesbury. He said that he wrote at her father's request, to beg that she would come home without delay. Mr. Austen had been very ill, but was now, it was hoped, on the way to recovery.

   "You will find your father changed in more ways than one," Mr. Fennell wrote. "He is very anxious to see you. Let me beg that you will come as soon as possible."

Lizzie was not long in making arrangements for her departure. Consigning Phil to the care of Sister Kathleen, she set out.

It was early in the afternoon when she reached Chelmsford, but already daylight was on the wane. The dull grey sky seemed to threaten snow, and the wind was very keen as Lizzie started on her five miles' walk along the hard bleak roads. But she was scarcely conscious of the weather as she hastened along, eager only to reach the bend in the road from which the meadow path led down to the old ivy-clad house. Nor did she pay much heed to the sound of wheels on the road behind her, till a voice called her by name, and she turned, to see Mr. Fennell looking down on her from the little one-horse gig in which he was wont to drive about the country.

"How are you, Miss Austen? I am so glad to see you. I did not think you could have got here so soon. Pray get up beside me, and I'll drive you to your gate."

Lizzie could not refuse. Mr. Fennell's warm grasp of her hand, as he helped her up to the seat beside him, told her that, whatever he might know or suspect, he was as willing to be her friend as ever.

"Your father will be very thankful that you have come," he said.

"How is he?" was all Lizzie could say.

"Better—getting well, I believe; it is the mind rather than the body that suffers now, but your coming will do him good. Miss Austen, I must tell you that your father has taken me into his confidence, and told me the story of your troubles. I hope you will not mind my knowing?"

"Why should I mind?" asked Lizzie tremulously. "Mr. Fennell, I have been brought too low in shame and penitence before God, to care for what others may think of my history."

"No one could know it without feeling much sympathy for you," he said; "you have been cruelly wronged."

Lizzie shivered at his words. She had loved the man who had so wronged her. She could not think of him without pain. "I did very wrong; I deserved to suffer," she said.

It seemed to Mr. Fennell that some one else deserved to suffer. But he said nothing, and the rest of the way was passed in silence. At the stile, he checked his horse.

Lizzie thanked him and sprang down. The next minute she was hastening down the well-known path to her home. The house door was on the latch, as it always was. She opened it and entered. All was quiet in the sitting-room, but she could hear some one moving in the kitchen. She did not go there.

She went at once to her father's room above, in the window of which she had seen the gleam of fire-light as she came down the meadow. She hesitated when she reached the door, and stood there trembling. In this room her mother had died; it would be terrible if her father met her there with bitter, reproachful words. But only for a moment did this thought stay her. With a prayer for help, she opened the door and went in.

Her father was sitting alone in his high-backed cushioned chair by the fire. The room was in gloom, save for the ruddy gleam from the fire, which shone on the old man's bowed and wasted form and on his silvery hair, as he leaned forward looking into the fire with sad and patient gaze. He did not turn at the sound of Lizzie's step. He imagined it was the servant who had entered.

"Never mind about the candles, Martha," he said; "I like the fire-light better."

Lizzie went forward and stood beside him. "Father," she said, "I have come. Can you receive me? Can you forgive me now?"

"Lizzie!"

No need to ask if he forgave her, when she heard how he uttered her name. The next moment Lizzie was kneeling by his side and her tears were falling fast upon his coat-sleeve.

"Thank God you are come, my child!" said the old man brokenly. "Don't talk of forgiveness."

"But I must," said Lizzie.

"Nay, nay, I was to blame. I was hard and cruel to you. I forgot that I too was a sinner, and God had shown mercy to me. I was like the Pharisee, Lizzie; I thought myself so good and respectable. But my God has humbled me; He has brought me to see that I have treated Him far worse than ever you treated me. Oh, child, can you forget my harsh words?"

"Of course I can forget them," replied Lizzie, "but I deserved them every one. I behaved very, very badly to you, father."

"Ay, but you had suffered enough; I need not have been so hard on you. You had been deceived and forsaken. I thought of that when I was ill, Lizzie. And when the minister came to see me, I told him all, and he said I had been very wrong.

"'What would become of you,' he said, 'if your Father in heaven dealt with you as you have dealt with your child?'

"That set me thinking, and I saw how sinful my conduct was."

"Never mind, father," she murmured; "I deserved it all, but oh, it is such comfort to know that you forgive me!"

"Fully and freely, as I hope to be forgiven," he said.

Then a silence fell between them—one of those silences that are more eloquent than words. Lizzie still knelt by her father's side. She held his hand in both hers, and every now and then she pressed her lips upon it.

Presently the stillness was broken by Martha's voice singing below. She was singing the refrain of a Christmas hymn,—

"'All glory be to God on high,
    And to the earth be peace.'"

"What is she singing about?" asked the old man suddenly.

"Glory to God, on earth peace," said Lizzie. "Father, do you know that to-morrow will be Christmas Day?"

"Ay," said her father; "the day on which our Saviour was born. He came to save us from our sins and give us peace with God. Lizzie, have you found peace in believing in Jesus?"

"I have, father," she said; "I thought there could be no peace for one so wicked as I; but Jesus called me, bowed with sin and misery, to Himself, and He has given me rest."

"Thank God!" said the old man fervently. "You must never leave me more, my daughter."

"But, father, you forget," she said, with a sudden look of trouble,—"you forget that I have my little Phil."

"Ah, to be sure—your child; you must take care of him. Where is he?"

"In London. Father, I cannot give him up."

"Why should you? Bring him home here. Poor child, he is worse off than if he had no father, but I'll do what I can for him whilst my life is spared. May God bless you both, and give you His peace—the peace of God, Lizzie, that 'passeth all understanding.'"

"Amen," she murmured, tears of thankfulness springing to her eyes.

And as she sat in the soft fire-light, her head resting against her father's knee, and his hand clasped in hers, a sense of peace stole into her heart such as she had not known since as a little child she sat thus by her father's knee. There was a wonderful calm in the world outside as the first snowflakes floated softly, softly to the wintry earth, but the hush of God's own peace had fallen on these hearts that had sinned and sorrowed, and "when He giveth quietness, who then can make trouble?"

THE END.

MORRISON AND GIBB, EDINBURGH
PRINTERS TO HER MAJESTY'S STATIONERY OFFICE.