"Nonsense, nonsense," answered Mr. Moss. "I have only done what any man would do. It is you who have saved them, doctor, not I. I am proud to know you, and I shall be glad to hear of your getting along in the world. You haven't done very well up to now, I fear. Go for the big fish and the big birds, doctor." "If that were the universal law of life," asked Dr. Spenlove in a tone of exquisite compassion, with a motion of his hands toward Mrs. Turner and her child, "what would become of these?" "Ah, yes, yes," responded Mr. Moss gravely, "but I mean in a general way, you know. To be sure, there are millions more little fish and birds than there are big ones, but it's a selfish world, doctor." "You are not an exemplification of it," said Dr. Spenlove, his eyes brightening. "The milk of human kindness will never be frozen, even on such bitter nights as this, while men like you are in it." "You make me ashamed of myself," cried Mr. Moss violently, but instantly sobered down. "And now, as I see we are close to the poor woman's house, perhaps you will tell me what more I can do." Dr. Spenlove took from his pocket the money with which he had intended to pay his fare to London, and held it out to Mr. Moss. "Pay the cabman for me, and assist me to carry the woman up to her room." Mr. Moss thrust the money back. "I will pay him myself; it is my cab, not yours. I don't allow anyone to get the better of me if I can help it." When the cab stopped he jumped out and settled with the driver, and then he and Dr. Spenlove carried Mrs. Turner and her babe to the top of the house. The room was dark and cold, and Mr. Moss shivered. He struck a match, and held it while Dr. Spenlove laid the mother and child upon their wretched bed. "Kindly stop here a moment," said the doctor. He went into the passage, and called to the lodger on the same floor of whom he had made inquiries earlier in the night. She soon appeared, and after they had exchanged a few words accompanied him, but partially dressed, to Mrs. Turner's room. She brought a lighted candle with her, and upon Mr. Moss taking it from her devoted herself, with Dr. Spenlove, to her fellow-lodger and the babe. "Dear, dear, dear!" she said piteously. "Poor soul, poor soul!" Mr. Moss was not idle. All the finer qualities of his nature were stirred to action by the adventures of the night. He knelt before the grate; it was empty; not a cinder had been left; some gray ashes on the hearth--that was all. He looked into the broken coal scuttle; it had been scraped bare. Rising to his feet, he stepped to the cupboard; a cracked cup and saucer were there, a chipped plate or two, a mouthless jug, and not a vestige of food. Without a word he left the room, and sped downstairs.