nobody she wouldn't pet. She kept Will
straight for a whole year when she was but a
child of twelve. Well, sir, she is an old woman
of two-and-twenty now. She has overworked
herself, and got some poison from the kitchen
drains. So she wasn't fit for her work, and lost
her place, and was destitute like. I had some of
my savings left, and would have helped her, but
she's a proud girl in her way. 'It's mother's
bread you want to give me, Tom,' says she. 'It's
not right to keep me, that's her child, out of the
workhouse by forcing her to die in it. I'm young,
and I shall do. I haven't grudged work to the
parish, and I'm not ashamed to take help till
I'm strong enough—as I soon shall be—to buckle
to again.' She's a brave little Susie, sir. She
wasn't spoilt by petting, and she wasn't spoilt by
slaving, though she did let herself be driven like
a slave."

"You have right to be proud of her."

"Proud of her, sir. Proud of what else?
Why didn't she go and sin, as, thank God, never
sister of mine did? Why didn't she let herself
be led away, as our Will was, and get tired of
toiling all the year round for a few dry crumbs
when she could get a year's earnings in a week
or a day by thieving! There's One that knows
who's tempted and who isn't, and what they
deserve who fight in awful struggle with the
Tempter all their lives and win. My poor weak
brother wasn't equal to the wrestle. But,
brave little Susie! Well, sir, Will, before he is
taken abroad, where he may mend and thrive, is
in a model prison now, well lodged and comfortably
fed. That's what he gets for doing
wrong. It made me cry to see our Susie in one
of the hungriest of London workhouses. Little
enough she gets for doing right."

"But her work," I said, "was at an hotel in
St. George's, Hanover-square, where there are
few poor, and out of very light rates guardians
afford liberal maintenance."

"I had that in my head, sir, when I agreed to
what the darling said so truly about mother.
But it turned out to have been settled long ago
that, as the rich people hadn't many poor except
their servants in their parishes, they shouldn't be
asked to pay rates for support of such as them
when they fell destitute. Domestic servants, it
was settled, commonly come out of impoverished
places, and they was to be sent back to those
impoverished places to be fed when they had
worked themselves out in the service of their
betters. Domestic service for any length of
years doesn't give anybody now a settlement.
So Susie was sucked dry down Hanover-square
way and then was chucked back for the remains
of her life to rot in Saffron-hill."

"Tom, you are angry!"

"I think not, sir. I don't know who with.
But there's something that's not fair to little
Susie, sir—something that isn't just. I'm told
the rich people in these grand parts of town have
saved themselves two shillings in the pound, and
shifted over the burden of four parts out of
five of their poor's rate upon the overweighted
little shopkeepers in such places as Saffron-hill
and Leather-lane by hitching off the charge of
their disabled servants. Is that fair? Little as
they pay there is enough to afford six or seven
shillings a week to the keep of a poor person
in their workhouses. How can a parish manage
that when it is crammed with poor creatures
who have to be supported chiefly by folks hardly
fit to keep themselves out of starvation? How
can such parishes afford an allowance such as
that? The rates have to be kept down by might
and main. It's cruel—it looks fearfully hard-
hearted in the working—but it's a necessity. My
Susie must be made to cost less than three
shillings a week, and every penny of that's
grudged her, because by right, if not by law, she
belongs to St. George's. It isn't only the little
that's in the helping hand my darling gets held
out to her, but it's the way it's held. And yet
people are kind enough. My master, now——"

"Your master, Tom, pays, I think, not very
much more poor's rate than your sister's master
did. His great house at Kensington is one of a
pile built where a nest of starvelings was pulled
down. No new nest was given to the starvelings,
and they went to Fulham, which is a nice
place, where almond and appleblossom comes
out a week earlier than on our side of London,
but where the parish is charged heavily with
poor. The poor turned out of Kensington have
settled there. Fulham shopkeepers and
gardeners pay three-and-sixpence in the pound for
support of the poor, your master pays only a
shilling. Yet I know very well that the low rate
pleases him. And, you know, he is a member
of Parliament."

"My master," said Tom, "wouldn't leave a
fly to struggle in a milkpot. He'd not only
fetch him out, but also wipe him. There'd be
no sort of laws wanted if all men were like unto
him."

"Have you spoken of Susie to your master?
He might help you."

"He would, sir. But I am thankful to say
he knows nothing of my affairs. What right,
have I, knowing his good nature, to take advantage
of it? Because he does more than his duty
by me, feeds me well, pays me well, even nurses
me when I am ill—for he never turns us out into
the street—was I to press upon him also with
our trouble about finding law for our Will? is
he to support also my mother and my sister?
What justice would there be in that? But, sir,"
—the poor fellow's voice quivered with sudden
reverence—"I have another Master upon whom
I may throw my burdens, however many they
may be. I have spoken to Him of Susie, and
the rest of us. He will help me, I am not
afraid."

One hears daily of troubles, and bears easily
those which do not lie on one's own shoulder.
I felt sympathy and respect for Thomas Part,
but gave, I am ashamed to say, no active thought
to his affairs, and often saw his master in the
way of friendly intercourse without alluding to
the sorrows of the footman.

One morning I was with my friend in his
study labouring to impress upon him what I