u?"

"Don't matter," whispered Connie again.

The preacher looked at her attentively. He put his kind hand for a
minute on her forehead, and then, with that marvellous knowledge which
he possessed of the human heart and the human needs, he said nothing for
the time being. Connie was not fit to argue, and he knew she was
worn-out. He got her to sit in the old arm-chair, and to lay her golden
head against a soft cushion, and then he prepared coffee--strong
coffee--both for her and himself.

It was late, and he was deadly tired. He had been up all the night
before. It was his custom often to spend his nights in this fashion;
for, as he was fond of expressing it, the Divine Master seemed to have
more work for him to do at night than in the daytime.

"There are plenty of others to help in the daytime," thought Father
John, "but in the darkness the sin and the shame are past talking about.
If I can lift a burden from one heart, and help one poor suffering soul,
surely that is the best night's rest I can attain to."

Last night he had put a drunken woman to bed. He had found her on a
doorstep, and had managed, notwithstanding his small stature and slender
frame, to drag her upstairs. There her terrified children met him. He
managed to get them into a calm state of mind, and then induced them to
help him for all they were worth. The great, bulky woman was undressed
and put into bed. She slept, and snored loudly, and the children crowded
round. He made them also go to bed, and went away, promising to call in
the morning.

He did so. The woman was awake, conscious, and bitterly ashamed. He
spoke to her as he alone knew how, and, before he left, induced her to
go with him to take the pledge. He then gave her a little money out of
his slender earnings to get a meal for the children, and spent the rest
of the day trying to get fresh employment for her. She had been thrown
out of work by her misdemeanors; but Father John was a power, and more
than one lady promised to try Mrs. Simpkins once again. The little
preacher was, therefore, more tired than his wont. He bent over Connie.
She drank her coffee, and, soothed by his presence, became calmer
herself.

"Now then," he said, "you will tell me everything. Why did you run
away?"

"'Cos I were tired o' machine-work. But, oh, Father John! I niver, niver
meant to stay aw'y. I jest thought as I were to get a nice new
situation; I niver guessed as it 'ud be a prison." Connie then t