cup, but Billy an' Jacky, an' the t'other ent
had nothing."

' And you?"

"Oh, sir, God be praised, I am used to it.
Ten years is a long 'prentisage. 'Tis
surprisin' how the famine feeds itself. An' then,
the childern's cries, an' him a dyin', drives the
thought away from me. I ant got the hard
stomach o' hunger, sir; 'tis unfeelin' in a
mother."

No wonder she did not feel the gnawings
of want: she had passed her being into other
existences; she had lost her identity in the
wife and the mother.

"Well, well, we must do something for
the children, Mary."

"Oh, sir, I did na come for that. What I
wants is work. You ha' comed atween us an'
death, many's a time. But indeed, what I
am here for, is, afore Jeames goes I wish he
could see you, sir, an' talk wi' you a bit. His
mind be strange an' uncomfortable like, about
religion."

"I thought him a believer, Mary."

"Mayhap he be; but men tell their wives
what, if they could, they would hide from God,
an' I ha' heerd him say awful things; he war
alway so courageous like. Howsomdever,
his hour be come, an' he ha' losed his darin,
an' believes jist like a child. I thought, if
he could on'y see you, sir."

Mr. Godfrey rang the. bell. An aged but
notable servant woman came.

"Martha, bring Mrs. Fielding a little warm
bread and milk."

"Oh, no, no, sir! 'Tis only my way, what
you see in my face; I war alway' palish like
—leastways this many a day."

Martha, who had promptly obeyed her
master, returned in a few minutes with a
basin.

"There, take that gently, Mary; it will
warm you."

"Will you forgive me, sir ? Indeed I
cannot. It 'ud choke me. The child'en—the
poor hungry child'en, sir!"

"They shall be thought of." Mr. Godfrey
left the room, returning shortly after with his
long surtout buttoned closely up, and a small
parcel in his hand.

"This contains a loaf, Mary—and
something else—you know what to do with it.
Let me have the ticket when I call, which
will be in the course of the evening. Leave
me now."

The comforted mother looked on Heaven's
minister and then up to heaven, and passed
noiselessly through the small door, with faith,
hope, and maternal love—the three strongest
pulses of the heart—to support her. She had
had the only full and perfect lesson of religion
—charity. But she did not know, until
she got to the pawnshop, that the poor curate
had taken his only waistcoat from his back
to feed her children. Then, indeed, the tide
of religion came strong upon her. So true it
is, that one act of kindness is worth a volume
of sermons in converting people. The curate's
vest was a baptismal robe to the unregenerated
spirit of Mary Fielding, the freethinking
potter's wife.

It was on an evening in the middle of June
that Mr. Godfrey passed along to the potter's
cottage. There had been some smart
refreshing showers during the day, and
the grass was healthily green, and the flowers
were vigorous and balmy, and here and there
was the restless uneasy chirp, in the tree or
hedge, of the young bird in its nest. The
sheep were settling down for the night in
the meadows; and the cows, after milking,
were scattered over the distant pasturages.
At intervals there was an unyoked horse
exulting in abundance and freedom. The poor
saluted Mr. Godfrey as he passed, and the
rich cordially greeted him, for he was
universally beloved.

"All God's works are beautiful and happy,"
said he to himself, as he wound among
the green lanes, and gazed upon the broad
benignant sky. " Man alone makes the
world miserable. I cannot think the design
of Providence was to make the chief of a
joyous creation wretched: there must be
some key to human felicity. The departing
sun shines on these dingy cottages, and the
few straggling flowers bloom cheerfully, and
cast their sweetness abroad on the air.
Outside is God's work; within, is man's."

And the curate entered the cabin of James
Fielding, the potter.

There had evidently been preparations to
receive him. The clay floor was newly
sprinkled and swept, and the few articles of
crockery and china, nearly all misshapen, or
otherwise defective, were as clean as the
pebbles in a river. The children's faces,
hands, and feet—for they had no shoes—were
all fresh from the washing-basin, and their
hair was sleekly combed across their foreheads.
There was evident poverty, but an equally
evident wish to conceal it. Not a vestige of
furniture or ornament was in the room,
beyond the few articles of earthenware
mentioned; all the rest, to the three-legged stool
for the baby, had either been sold or burned
for fuel. There were three or four hassocks
of hay for seats, but these too had been
preyed on for fuel, and ran out at the sides;
and there were some layers of chipped, dried-
up straw, as a bed in the corner. On this was
stretched the dying man. The eldest boy ran
to borrow a chair as Mr. Godfrey entered, and
the thrifty housewife had just drawn the old
rags from the three lower panes of the glassless
and only window in the hovel, to let the
sun and air in. This was the abode of an
Englishman in the heart of England.

The patient had been propped up somewhat
on his straw, and a neighbour had
shaved him and lent him a shirt, which,
though old, was clean. So, what with well-
washed skin and combed hair, and a cup of
refreshing tea, he was prepared to receive the