the old blacksmith, who could not bear to
hear her name mentioned without tears. On certain nights of the week
he used to come regularly with the rest to learn to read, like a
little child, from that young teacher. As I said in my last, she
still sends a weekly letter to her poor scholars in Wigan to
encourage them in their struggles, and to induce as many of them as
are able to write to her in return. "This is one of her letters,"
said the poor woman, handing a paper to me. The manner of the
handwriting was itself characteristic of kind consideration for her
untrained readers. The words stood well apart. The letters were
clearly divided, and carefully and distinctly written, in Roman
characters, a quarter of an inch long; and there was about three-
quarters of an inch of space between each line, so as to make the
whole easier to read by those not used to manuscript. The letter ran
as follows:--"Dear friends,--I send you with this some little books,
which I hope you will like to try to read; soon, I hope, I shall be
able to help you with those texts you cannot make out by yourselves.
I often think of you, dear friends, and wish that I could sometimes
take a walk to Scholefield's Lane. This wish only makes me feel how
far I am from you, but then I remember with gladness that I may
mention you all by name to our one Father, and ask Him to bless you.
Very often I do ask Him, and one of my strongest wishes is that we,
who have so often read His message of love together, may all of us
love the Saviour, and, through Him, be saved from sin. Dear friends,
do pray to Him. With kind love and best wishes to each one of you,
believe me always, your sincere friend, __." I have dwelt a little
upon this instance of unassuming beneficence, to show that there is
a great deal of good being done in this world, which is not much
heard of, except by accident. One meets with it, here and there, as
a thirsty traveller meets with an unexpected spring in the
wilderness, refreshing its own plot of earth, without noise or
ostentation.

My friend and I left the weaver's cottage, and came down again into
a part of Scholes where huddled squalor and filth is to be found on
all sides. On our way we passed an old tattered Irishwoman, who was
hurrying along, with two large cabbages clipt tight in her withered
arms. "You're doin' well, old lady," said I. "Faith," replied she,
"if I had a big lump ov a ham bone, now, wouldn't we get over this
day in glo