band, and I dare say she won't want a large salary.'

So Bertha, lonely and bewildered at the sudden loss of mother, and little sister, and worldly goods all at once, answered the first call, and went to Widebridge.

The Steeles had no room for her in their house; indeed, careful Mrs. Steele thought it better not' to encumber herself altogether with the friendless girl, but she took trouble to see that the humble room where Miss Moore was to live was in a decent house, and then, provided the little Steeles picked up French quickly, and John and Marmaduke were steady over their Latin Grammar, she thought no more of the daily governess.

The Steele children were not a pleasant set; the boys were rough and rude, the girls pert, conceited, and so ashamed of Miss Moore's country bonnet, that they would not walk out with her, as Mrs. Steele had intended that they should. So lessons over, Bertha went slowly back to her lodging, and when she had corrected the exercises which she brought away with her, and put in the few stitches her wardrobe required, she had the whole evening in which to think of mother and Janie. Aye! and of father too, dead seven years ago; unconscious in his quiet grave of the strange, sad life his pet daughter was leading.

For no one cared now whether she lived or died, was happy or miserable. Not the lodging-house keeper, she could easily fill her place if she went away-not the little Steeles, the governess was rather an object of aversion to them, and even Mrs. Steele, with her activity and observant powers, would soon be able to find another instructress for her children if this one failed.

No, no one wanted her, and all the powers and energies of her mind went to find daily bread and coarse clothing for a

creature who merely cumbered the earth. Poor Bertha! This was indeed a sad thought to take possession of her as she sat one evening idly pulling to pieces a spray of ivy she had gathered, because it reminded her of the old farm.

Satan was attacking her as he had done Job of old, but he was not to prevail.

'If only I had some one to work for beside myself,' thought Bertha, 'I should feel less dreary. If only Janie had been left! But there is no one.'

What came from Bertha's lips as a complaint went up to the throne of God as a

prayer.

And the answer came in this wise.

In the house opposite to the one in which Bertha lived were also many lodgers, and high up in the attic, facing Miss Moore's room, little faces often peeped out

grimy little faces a-top of torn and dirty pinafores, faces often tear-streaked from the rough treatment of a drunken mother.

Bertha saw a good deal of what went on opposite, and felt a dull sort of compassion for the wretched children.

One was a sick child, too, a boy who sat at the window, with a flushed face, gasping for breath most part of the day and night.

'Asthma,' said the neighbours, 'takes him in the breath; he'll never do no good in the world.'

No! little Tim Haig would never do a man's part in the world, those wasted hands would never harden with toil; he must always be a burden to some one, and lest some day the drunken mother should so far forget her instincts as to neglect or ill-treat the poor suffering creature, let us pray God to take him to Himself.

Not so fast, if you please! Little Tim has something to do in the world before God takes him.

(To be continued.)

Doubtless the cost was many a fall—

(Wise cautions these against conceit)— I will not underrate withal

The triumph of thy baby-feet. Not I, for well I know indeed

What failures first attempts attend; What trials of patience must precede The point where difficulties end.

But at the news, dear child, I must

Make prayer, that Heaven thy steps may lead,

Lest thou in self too much shouldst trust,

Or lean upon some broken reed,

As disappointing true delight

As now, when fearless of a fall, Thou striv'st to catch the sunbeam bright

From paper-flowers upon the wall.

Though earth beset with sin and strife From these first steps which thou hast trod,

Heaven grant than mine thy future life

May be a closer walk with God!
Be highest faith, my child, thine own;
Lean on the Father's loving hand;
For we can never walk alone

In safety to the Promised Land!

ROWLAND BROWN.

'He shall give His angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways. They shall bear thee up in their hands, lest thou dash thy foot against a stone.'-Ps. xci. 11, 12.

'SHE HATH DONE WHAT SHE

COULD.'

(Continued from p. 55.)

ATURDAY night!

SAT

A bad night in

town-alleys, not always a happy time in the country either. The little Haigs were waiting and watching for mother to come. home, and yet they were trembling, poor children! fearful of the state in which she

might be. The sick boy was the eldest of the lot, and he was but ten years old. They were cold and hungry, and it was doubtful if mother would bring tea and bread with her, or only blows and angry words. The children hardly knew what to think when eight, nine, ten struck, and no mother came at all. They shivered, and cried, and finally crept into bed faint with hunger and watching. No mother came next morning either a brilliant, chilly Easter morn-and in the house opposite it was said, that in a drunken brawl of the ensuing night, one Charlotte Haig had struck and wounded to death. some wretched companion, and had been taken up by the police. And then they spoke of the children. Some one's Lizzie had run across and reported them frightened, and hungry, and crying.

Bertha heard it all, and having no selfish fears, and a heart not altogether made of stone, she took her little tea-pot and the remainder of her small loaf of bread across the way.

She should go easier to church, she said to herself, if she was sure those children were not starving.

They were not an interesting little band, pale, and pinched, and very dirty; the only pleasant-looking one was the sick boy, whom she had so often seen pressing his face against the dingy window-pane, watching the bits of pale blue sky that the great fleecy April

clouds now and then disclosed. Something in his face attracted Bertha, but not till she had fed all the ravenous youngsters did she stay to wonder, reflect, and then feel sure, that it was a shadow of bright Janie's looks that lingered on the countenance of this hapless little fellow.

Bertha never went to church that Sunday, she could not leave the helpless party; the police came in and out, officials from the prison and the workhouse, curious neighbours and all seemed to consider her the person to consult.

The mother's case was a bad one: in a drunken rage she had struck blindly out, and her victim was dying. Meantime, Mrs. Haig was in custody.

Bertha explained to the various officials that she was no relation, and could in no way take charge of the children, so it was settled to remove them to the workhouse next morning. Bread and milk was provided for them that night, and Bertha, wishful to do a little to improve their condition, washed the little things before she put them to bed.

When all was quiet, she repeated Janie's evening hymn by the one straw bed which held her flock; she always said it to herself at bed-time, and something prompted her to let these children be soothed by it too. Tim was the only one who took any notice. Say some more,' he pleaded, and then Bertha took heart, and sang another little hymn of her childhood.

In the pause that followed Tim asked,'You're not a-going to send us to the house?'

And Bertha explained, that while their mother was away they must go there, as there was no one to look after them.

'Mary, and Tom, and Susy, they don't mind it,' said poor Tim; we've all been afore: but it hurts me.'

The upturned face caught the little dead. sister's glance, and Bertha stooped down and kissed it with a sigh.

"I wish I could keep you, Tim,' she said; 'but I'm poor, too, and I have no home to take you to."

'I was in a hospital once,' said Tim, quite resigned to the refusal; they was real kind to me, and I had jam, and they sung hymns o' nights like you.'

A new light flashed across Bertha's mind. She was sorely loth to let this sick, perhaps dying child, be turned in among a rough herd of creatures who made a mock of his sufferings. If only she could manage something better! thing better! She must think.

Just before leaving the Chestnut Farm a neighbouring cottage had been taken by some good people, with the intention of establishing a small hospital there; Bertha had watched the preparations with interest, and she remembered in the last sad days of death and trouble at the Farm, that she had seen pale faces at the upper windows of the building; and she remembered, too, that she had noticed Moorside Cottage Hospital' painted over the door.

If only Tim Haig could be got there! The fresh country air would surely bring him round. But how was it to be managed? Money would be required, and suppose that forthcoming (Bertha's thoughts flew instantly to a tiny brown purse in her workbox, with a very small store in it for rainy days), would they let Tim in, a wretched child, with a drunken mother, who might even be a murderess? She thought and thought till her brain grew dizzy.

(To be continued.)