"It is," he returned. "And if it be consolatory to minister to their physical wants, how much more to feed their immortal souls!" Katherine was silent for a few minutes, and then said: "It is impossible they can think much about their souls when they suffer so keenly in their bodies. Poverty and privation which destroy self-respect cannot allow of spiritual aspiration. Is it to be always like this--one class steeped in luxury, the other grovelling in cruel want?" "Our Lord says, 'Ye have the poor always with you,'" returned Bertie. "Nor can we hope to see the curse of original sin lifted from life here below until the great manifestation; in short, till Shiloh come." "Do you think so? I do not like to think that Satan is too strong for God," said Katherine, thoughtfully. Bertie replied by exhorting her earnestly not to trust to mere human reason, to accept the infallible word of God, "and so find safety and rest." Katherine did not reply. "I think you could help me in a difficult case," said Bertie, a few days after this conversation. "Indeed!" said Katherine, looking up from the book she was reading by the fire after dinner. "What help can I possibly give?" "Hear my story, and you will see." "I shall be most happy if I can help you. Pray go on." "You know Dodd, the porter and factotum at the Children's Refuge? Well, Dodd has a mother, a very respectable old dame, who keeps a very mild sweety shop, and also sells newspapers, etc. Mrs. Dodd, besides these sources of wealth, lets lodgings, and seems to get on pretty well. Now Dodd came to me in some distress, and said, 'Would you be so good, sir, as to see mother? she wants a word with you bad, very bad.' I of course said I was very ready to hear what she had to say. So I called at the little shop, which I often pass. I found the old lady in great trouble about a young woman who had been lodging with her for some time. She, Mrs. Dodd, did not know that her lodger was absolutely ill, but she scarcely eats anything, she never went out, she sometimes sat up half the night. Hitherto she had paid her rent regularly, but on last rent-day she had said she could only pay two weeks more, after which she supposed she had better go to the workhouse. When first she came she used to go out looking for work, but that ceased, and she seemed in a half-conscious state. As I was a charitable gentleman, would I go and speak to her? Well, rather reluctantly, I did. I went upstairs to a dreary back room, and found a decidedly lady-like young woman, neatly dressed enough, but ghastly white with dull eyes. She seemed to be dusting some books, but looked too weary to do much. She was not surprised or moved in any way at seeing me. When I apologized for intruding upon her, she murmured that I was very good. Then I asked if I could help her in any way. She thanked me, but suggested nothing. When I pressed her to express her needs, she said that life was not worth