Now, when he was cast out, society, which appears so very complex to others, was very simple to him. There were two things he had to fear, both of them appointed by God, -we are told so,-hunger and the policeman. Here was the problem. How can I stop my hunger and not be clutched by the policeman? He had heard about earning an honest living, but he knew no one who would take him. The law which had taken from him his father provided no bread for the child. The charity which sheltered and would cure his mother had neglected him. He must not beg, else policeman takes him. He must not steal, else policeman takes him. He must not cut his throat or throw himself into the water, else policeman takes him if he can. And yet he must live. Can he eat paving stones? No; and even if he could the corporation would object.

The lad wandered in bitterness among the streets, picking up now and then a crust. At length he was weary and the day far spent. Eager for any change, he followed a number of people who were going all in one direction, and found himself at the door of a fine building. Would he venture in? He paused, looked, wondered, entered. But he had scarcely looked at the inner splendour of the holy of holies when a gentleman at the door spied him, and said,

"Now, young fellow, turn out of this!"

A little one had come to the church seeking shelter and found none,found rather a stumbling stone and an offence. Around whose neck must the millstone be tied? A serious question this same for the offending church.

One of these-an elder scholar who had just left a ragged schoolmet him, and, knowing that his father was in prison, cried,"Come along, Chuckie, and we'll take care o' ye.'

Chuckie was only too glad of any one who would speak a kind word, and so he followed them into the free-and-easy. The room was hot and crowded. Most of the singers were young; many of them were Sunday scholars. The company knew about Chuckie, and offered him some drink. Soon after this he lost his senses. All was a blank till he was startled by the flash of a policeman's lantern and a gruff, "Now then, what are you doing here, young fellow ?"

He opened his eyes in an open court not far from his own house, his body cold and stiff, and his mind confused and sad.

"Move on now I tell you," said

the law.

Chuckie tried to raise himself. He partly succeeded, staggered, and would have fallen, but the policeman had pity on him and said, "Take care, Chuckie." There are kind hearts as well as brave hearts under a policeman's uniform. Stern rocks hide within fountains of living water. Chuckie was grateful for even this

ne kind sentence, and looked up rith hope.

"How did you come here ?" said he policeman. "Why don't you sleep in your father's house?"

"They gave me some beer at a free-and-easy last night, and I suppose I was thrown out when I got drunk."

Chuckie.

"O! that's it. But you know it's gainst the law to get drunk." Law again, thought poor I want to do something right, but I am always going against the law." "You had better get work as soon as you can," said the policeman, whose duty compelled him to move forward on his beat.

So Chuckie, poor wee Chuckie, is again left alone with an empty stomach and starvation. In bitterness of spirit he ran along the street at full speed, careless where he went or what he did. His foot caught something slippery, and he fell on the pavement, striking his head and cutting it open. He did not faint,

nor even cry, but an awful pain rushed through him, and he shuddered. He was not long lying, however, when a woman came, lifted him in her arms, and carried him to her own room, a small apartment up an old creaking stair. She placed him on the bed, got some water and bathed his wound, bound it, and when she had so done, she sat on a small clog of wood and said,— "Now, my little fellow, you be quiet, and you will soon be all right again."

Chuckie said nothing. He could not sleep, and watched his good angel at work. It was about three o'clock on Monday morning, and her fingers were busy making splints to light men's pipes at beerhouses. By working fifteen or sixteen hours she could earn a shilling a day.

The room was cold and cheerless. The clog of wood was the only seat, the bed was of straw, and had a few old bags for sheets and coverlet. There was one pan, an old clock

which never moved, and a few tracts left by an earnest missionary. This was all, and yet she lived-lived a life of weariness and woe.

But who knows not that even the poorest have a joy in helping those who are weaker than themselves? Besides, amidst surrounding wickedness, she had remained pure and good, determined to starve rather than earn the bread of shame. Young and friendless, but a true woman. It was a hard struggle, but she flinched not. She toiled on till morn, and then turning to Chuckie she said,—

"Now, my little fellow, how are you ?",

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'Better," was the faint reply. "Are you hungry?"

"Yes, very."

"Well, you shall have half my. dinner. I can't afford breakfast, but twelve o'clock is my dinner hour."

"Thank you."

And she kindled a few splints, took a small bit of coal which she had picked up in the streets over night, and boiled a small pan which contained seven potatoes. She then held one red herring before the fire. When the potatoes were boiled she put out the fire to save it till supper time, and then said to Chuckie,— "Can sit up you in bed ?" "Yes.'

"Well, here's your dinner." She gave him four potatoes and the larger half of the red herring.

Chuckie noticed this, and said,"You are giving me too many potatoes. Here, take one back."

"No, no, my boy. You have more need of them. I see you are very hungry. But wait till I give thanks to God."

Whereupon she devoutly asked a blessing, not mumbling over a few inaudible words with a fork in one hand, while the other holds a carving knife. When she had finished, the two-the lost boy and his saviour-took the potatoes with grateful

hearts. Resting a few moments after taking her three potatoes and a fraction of a red herring, she turned to Chuckie and said,

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'Have you any home?"

"Yes. I live at the other end of this street."

"I thought I had Have you any parents ?"

seen you.

"Yes. But father's in prison and mother's in t' infirmary, and I have nowt to eat."

"Where were you yesterday?"

Chuckie told her his Sunday's adventures. She listened with a kind of sad smile. When he had finished she said,

"So the nobs wouldn't let you into their fine church? Well, it's a blessing Jesus is not confined to their churches and chapels. He comes as gladly to my poor hovel as to the finest building in the world. But it strikes me if He came back again, and saw Christians warming themselves, and letting the poor die of cold, He would have some strong words to say unto them."

Chuckie heard with amazement. He had heard his father and Tim swearing by Jesus, but that was as much as he knew about Him. But this woman spoke about Jesus as if she loved Him.

She resumed her work, but a thought had entered her mind, and amidst her toil she turned to Chuckie and said,

"Do you know who made you?" "No," said he. "At least I ain't quite sure."

"Who do you think made you ?" "Well, I have heard it said as how the doctor as makes pills and such, makes babies also, and I suppose he made me some day when he was tipsy, for I feel very bad made. I wish he hadn't a-made me at all if he couldn't a-made a better job."

She smiled a little, then grew sad. "No, my boy, God made and you me, and all the world, and He is very good and holy."

"God! Where does He live ?"

"Oh, He lives far away in heaven, in a beautiful city where everybody is happy."

"And did God put me into Deansgate while He lives in a fine city Himself ?"

"Yes, my boy."

"Well, He is a bit selfish. He might a-put me where I'd a-got summat to eat anyhow."

"Hush! hush! my child. God is very good, and if you pray to Him He will send you bread and all you need."

"Does God keep you a-workin' at these ere lights, while He puts big ladies as ain't half as good as you in big houses ?"

"Yes, my boy,He has put me here." 'Well, all I can say is, I think I could do things better myself."

"No, my boy. He doeth all things well," and the woman went on with weary fingers and aching head and heart, trying to earn one shilling a day by fifteen hours' work, while my Lord Tom Noddy spends the same sum in two cigars.

Chuckie remained with his saviour. His mother died in the infirmary, his father was sent to prison for years, and, unless a poor young woman in Deansgate had had mercy upon him, the law upon the one hand, and the church upon the other, would have left him to starve, steal, and go to prison. She clung to the lad for many years.

But hard times came at last, harder! times than usual, and there was no work for the woman. Chuckie, as a growing lad, required all his wages in food. What was to be done? One evening when he came home she was weeping before the cold grate. She had no food. Chuckie sat beside her, and asked what was the matter.

"Nothing, Chuckie. I am only rather weak."

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dinner?"

Have you had any "Not much." (She had picked had eaten it with eagerness.) up a single crust in the court, and