enough to keep the
children, but it will be harder to lose them!" she cried.

Jeffreys went to the bed where the little consumptive girl lay in a
restless sleep, breathing heavily.

"Poor little Annie!" said he; "I did not know she was so ill."

"How could you? Yes, I saw the lady come down--a pretty wee thing. She
comes and goes here. Maybe when she hears of Annie she'll come to her."

"Do you know her name?"

"No. She's a lady, they say. I heard her singing upstairs to Trimble;
it was a treat! So Trimble's dead. You'll be glad of some help, I
expect? If you'll mind the children, Mr John, I'll go up and do the
best we can for the poor fellow."

And so Jeffreys, with the baby in his arms, sat beside the little
invalid in that lonely room, while the mother, putting aside her own
sorrows, went up and did a woman's service where it was most needed.
Next day he had the garret to himself. That letter--how he treasured
it!--changed life for him. He had expected, when Jonah's illness ended,
to drift back once more into the bitterness of despair. But that was
impossible now.

He made no attempt to see the angel of whose visits to the alley he now
and again heard. Indeed, whether he was in work or not, he left early
and came back late on purpose to avoid a meeting. He had long been
known by his neighbours only as John, so that there was no chance of her
discovering who he was. Sometimes the memory of that October day in
Regent's Park came up to haunt him and poison even the comfort of the
little letter. Yet why should she not have forgotten him? and why
should not Scarfe, the man with a character, be more to her than he, the
man with none? Yet he tried bravely to banish all, save the one thought
that it _was_ she who bade him hope and take courage.

He worked well and patiently at the temporary manual labour on which he
was employed, and when that came to an end he looked about resolutely
for more.

Meanwhile--do not smile, reader--he made an investment of capital! In
other words, he spent threepence in pen, ink, paper, and a candle, and
spent one night in his lonely garret writing. It was a letter,
addressed to a stranger, on a public question. In other words, it was
an article to a London paper on, "Life in a Slum, by One who Lives
There." It was a quiet, unsensational paper, with some practical
suggestions for the improvement of poor people's dwellings, and a few
true stories of experiences in w