e dirt to come to the school, or else to go to the homes, if such
they could be called, of those whose names were already upon the roll,
and secure their attendance at the service.

Then when the school opened they found plenty to do, distributing the
hymn books, helping in the singing, keeping a sharp look-out for unruly
behaviour, watching the door lest any scholar should take it into his
head to bolt, insuring an equitable division of the picture papers, and
so on until the hour came to close the school, and they turned their
steps churchward, feeling with good reason that they had really been
doing work for God, and hard work, too.

They soon grew to love Mr. McMaster as much as they admired his zeal. He
was in many ways a quaint, curious character. His body seemed so small
and insignificant, and his spirit so mighty. He knew neither fear nor
despair in the prosecution of his chosen work, and it was impossible to
be associated with him without being infected by his unquenchable
ardour. For some time no special incident marked their work, and then
Bert had an experience that might have brought his part with it to an
end had he been made of less sturdy stuff.

In company with Mr. McMaster he was making the usual round previous to
the opening of the school, beating up unreliable scholars, and had
entered a damp, noisome alley, lined on either side with tumble-down
apologies for houses. Mr. McMaster took one side and Bert the other, and
they proceeded to visit the different dwellers in this horrible place.
Bert had knocked at several doors without getting any response, for the
people were apt to lie in bed late on Sunday morning, and then his
attention was aroused by sounds of crying mingled with oaths, that came
from the garret of a villainous-looking tenement. He could hear the
voices of a woman and of a child raised in entreaty and terror, and
without pausing to consider the consequences, sprang up the broken
stairs to the room from which they issued.

On opening the door a scene presented itself that would have stirred the
sympathies of a man of stone. Pat Brannigan, the big wharf labourer, had
devoted the greater portion of his week's wages to making himself and
his boon companions drunk with the vile rum dealt out at the groggery
hard by. At midnight he had stumbled home, and throwing himself upon his
bed sought to sleep off the effects of his carouse. Waking up late in
the morning with a raging headache, a bur