oned drunkard, this
man started forth to get honest bread. Where should he go? What could
he do? Who would give employment to an object like him? The odds were
fearfully against him--no, not that, either. In outward respects,
fearful enough were the odds, but on the other side agencies invisible
to mortal sight were organizing for his safety. In to his purpose
to lead a new life and help a poor homeless child God's strength was
flowing. Angels were drawing near to a miserable wreck of humanity with
hands outstretched to save. All heaven was coming to the rescue.

He was shuffling along in the direction of a market-house, hoping to
earn a little by carrying home baskets, when he came face to face with
an old friend of his better days, a man with whom he had once held close
business relations.

"Mr. Hall!" exclaimed this man in a tone of sorrowful surprise,
stopping and looking at him with an expression of deepest pity on his
countenance. "This is dreadful!"

"You may well say that, Mr. Graham. It dreadful enough. No one knows
that better than I do," was answered, with a bitterness that his old
friend felt to be genuine.

"Why, then, lead this terrible life a day longer?" asked the friend.

"I shall not lead it a day longer if God will help me," was replied,
with a genuineness of purpose that was felt by Mr. Graham.

"Give me your hand on that, Andrew Hall," he exclaimed. Two hands closed
in a tight grip.

"Where are you going now?" inquired the friend.

"I'm in search of something to do--something that will give me honest
bread. Look at my hand."

He held it up.

"It shakes, you see. I have not tasted liquor this morning. I could have
bought it, but I did not."

"Why?"

"I said, 'God being my helper, I will be a man again,' and I am trying."

"Andrew Hall," said his old friend, solemnly, as he laid his hand on his
shoulder, "if you are really in earnest--if you do mean, in the help of
God, to try--all will be well. But in his help alone is there any hope.
Have you seen Mr. Paulding?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"He has no faith in me. I have deceived him too often."

"What ground of faith is there now?" asked Mr. Graham.

"This," was the firm but hastily spoken answer. "Last night as I sat in
the gloom of my dreary hovel, feeling so wretched that I wished I could
die, a little child came in--a poor, motherless, homeless wanderer,
almost a baby--and crept down to my heart, and he is lying there still,
Mr.