listen to the blind man we wonder what his story is, and we
learn that he was born in Trinity Lane, Upper Thames Street, in the days
when poor people did live on that side of the water, and that he was
engaged at an early age in tide work. "Coal trade," he says, quietly.
"Seaham to London. The _Isabella_ brig. Four or five years I had of
that. Then I was off to Russia in the _Prince George_. Then I did the
trade between England and America. Then I was on a brig working the west
coast of Africa. After that I came home and married. My wife lived in
Fivefoot Lane. Her father was a carpenter. She was a good woman. She's
dead now. We buried a sight of little 'uns. I can't tell you how many.
There was a son, Harry: we buried him; a girl, 'Liza: we buried her; and
a boy, Frank: we buried him; but I can't tell you how many little 'uns.
Buried a lot, we did. Three children living now. Doing fair, they are;
pretty fair. As times go, you know. I dare say they're happy enough."

After all these years of seafaring Mr. Wells worked on Brewer's Quay
for eleven years, and after that took a spell of work in City
warehouses. He "entered the Fur Trade." He did good work and earned good
money; but after a bit he got what he describes as "a bit of a blight"
in the eyes. He went to Moorfields hospital and underwent an operation.
The darkness didn't lift. The twilight in which he lived deepened. He
had to give up respectable work, and took to selling toys in the street.
Then, one day, he was knocked down by a cab, and was carried to
hospital, where by good fortune he fell in with Father Vivian. Father
Vivian--whose name is blessed to this day in I know not how many slum
homes--happened to want a companion for Joe, and Mr. Wells was pressed
into the service. The blind man came to take care of the paralytic, and
here they now are in the little two-roomed slum cottage, smoking their
pipes in the blackened kitchen, and declaring that they have never been
so well off in their lives before.

His Majesty the King has no more loyal and affectionate subjects. A
friend of mine carried the two old gentlemen off to a Coronation dinner.
They had a hundred things to complain of concerning the way in which the
plates were whisked off before they had even got the savour of the dish
in their nostrils; but when it came to singing "God save the King" they
roared and cheered and shouted and cheered again, and cried till the
tears ran down their faces. And now, a