so in our town. Never had there been such
distress before. The unions were full to
overflowing, and there was literally no work to be
got. Mother tried hard to earn enough for our
support, by taking in washing; and I helped
her all I could. But, one by one, our little
articles of furniture went to pay for rent and
food— not good wholesome meat, but dry bread,
with which to keep body and soul together. In
father's lifetime we had never known want;
we had lived hard, but had never been without
a sufficiency to satisfy hunger, and often
something to spare for our poorer neighbours. But
now times were changed. I never knew what
it was to feel satisfied. I envied the meanest
shop-boy who had a meal to sit down to— the
lowest scullion in a gentleman's plentiful
kitchen. Mr. Penrhyn had promised to get
me into some upholsterer's shop, where I might
learn the trade thoroughly, of which father had
already taught me a good deal; for he was a
skilful workman. But my own wish was for
service in some family where I could be sure of
food and clothing, and see something of the
world besides. We longed for Mr. Penrhyn's
return, who, we knew, would both advise and
assist us.

"Meanwhile, mother, who had resisted the
terrible epidemic, began to sink under what
seemed to be perpetual fever. She had never
been strong, and the labour and privation she
now underwent were more than she could bear.
I did my duty by her in that sad time; but I
couldn't save her, dying as she was for want of
food and rest. One afternoon she was lying on
her poor bed, which had but little covering left,
whilst I was doing my best to complete her
ironing. Her eyes were closed, and she
breathed heavily, as though asleep; so that I
was rather startled to hear her call me, ' Clem!
Clem!' in a weak voice, that yet sounded eager
too. I ran to her with the iron still in my hand.
' Put that down,' said she, looking at me with
a strange stare; ' it don't matter now, my
dear! Sit you here by me on the bed— I'll
never iron no more, Clem! I an't long for this
world, and I've seen such a deal of trouble in
life, that I'd be glad to go, but for you. I
would indeed,' she cried, looking up solemnly.
' I long to be " where the wicked cease
from troublin', and the weary are at rest."
There's little rest for the poor, seems to me, on
this side the grave; but there's rest for
them with God. Oh, my dear!'— she gave a
great gasping sigh —I'd die happy if I could
but see th' master, and tell him what's in my
mind about my boy. And I'd like him to say a
prayer there just where you sits and close
my eyes, as he did my old man's. Why is the
dear master away?'

"My heart felt dead within me. I couldn't
cry. I could do nothing but stroke and kiss her
hands. I couldn't realise losing her. It seemed
to me impossible that I should be left there all
alone a helpless orphan of fifteen. I tried to
say a prayer for her; but my tongue was
parched., and I could scarcely speak the words.
She did not heed it— she seemed all strange
and wandering. ' I've such a longing for beef-
tea,' she said presently, fixing her eye on me
with a hungry, eager gaze that reminded me of
a starving dog I had once seen; 'a cup of th'
master's beef-tea would do me such good
now!'— she laughed a wild laugh.— ' And he'd
give it me, if it was the last drop he had in the
house I know he would.'

"I looked in the cupboard. There was a stale
quarter of a loaf, and just a pinch of tea in a
blue paper; that was all. I made her a cup of
the latter, and she sipped a little of it. ' Ah!
it an't like beef-tea, my dear!' she said, with a
long shuddering sigh. ' That'd set me up again,
p'r'aps!' She took my hand, and kissed it.
' Clem, my boy! you've been a good son to
me, and you'll always do what th' master says,
I know? He'll be a friend to you when I'm
gone.'

"I threw myself on the bed, and implored her
not to talk so. I felt as if I should go mad. I
felt I must endeavour to procure her some help,
though I knew not how nor where. I got a
poor widow whom she had been often good to
(she was a kind soul, was mother!), to come
and stay in our room, and finish the ironing.
Then I ran out, half crazy. It was just Christmas-
time, and all the shops were full of provisions;
everything that could tempt a poor starving boy.
I ran till I had reached a better quarter of the
town than ours; then I stopped to take breath.
I was near a large butcher's shop, about which
there was quite a crowd of people, buying meat
in the cold dim afternoon. There scarcely
seemed enough shopmen to attend to so many.
I stood there, idly watching, as one after another
walked away provided. There was beef in
plenty— beef that might save mother's life.

"All at once, a woman standing near, who had
been eagerly disputing with one of the shopmen
about the price of a small piece of meat, threw
it down and followed him to the other side of the
counter. The meat fell on the pavement close
by me. I stooped and picked it up. Then,
quick as lightning, came the wrong thought— the
irresistible temptation. 'Take it,' the Devil
whispered, ' and save your mother.' I slipped
it under my ragged coat, and trembling, shivering
with excitement, slunk away unperceived.
Sir, I give you my word I did not realise at that
moment what I was doing. I was absorbed in
the unexpected delight ot having obtained beef-
tea for mother! I walked slowly away, not
daring to look behind me. Suddenly a sound
caught my ear— a fearful sound— ' Stop thief!'
Could it— could it be me they were meaning?
The doubt was enough! I flew like an arrow
from a bow, knowing nothing, thinking nothing
but to escape from that horrible detection, which
all at once rose, and glared at me like a spectre.
I, a thief! Madly I tore on; and as I turned
the corner of a street, I looked back. Ah! there
were people running— following me! I saw
them in that glimpse. And louder and louder
came the cry, 'Stop thief! stop thief! .

"My brain seemed on fire— my heart ready to