A week had passed away since Roy was lost. Sunday came round again, finding Faith no longer in her neat and comfortable home, but a gutter child, dressed as badly, and in quite as great rags, as the worst-looking child around her. Meg was her companion and staunch friend, but it seemed no hardship in Meg's eyes to counsel Faith to pawn her neat and good clothes, and to receive in exchange garments in which her father would scarcely recognise her. The money received for the clothes had enabled the little girls to live for some days; and then they had sold matches and flowers, and in one way and another had managed to keep life within them. Faith, though really unaccustomed to any hardship, had borne up bravely. The hope with which she had awakened each morning that surely before the evening they would find Roy, had supported her spirits; but each night as it came, with its invariable disappointment, until even Meg began to own that she was puzzled as to what had become of the child, brought an added weight to Faith's heart. She was more than ever determined not to go home again without her little brother. But as she lay down on her musty bed on Saturday evening in the wretched cellar where she and Meg had found for themselves quarters, hope had vanished to a very low ebb indeed. Sunday morning dawned. It would be a whole week to-day since she last had seen her darling little Roy. She felt very, very miserable. No, hope would not visit her heart that day, and as she lay in bed watching Meg putting on her clothes, the tears rolled down her pale cheeks, and dark and sceptical thoughts filled her mind. When Meg noticed her tears, she spoke. "It's all a lie, Meg; it's all a big, big lie." "Wot's a lie," asked Meg, stopping in her dressing, and staring at Faith. "Wot you telled me about Jesus. He didn't never love the little children; ef He loved 'em, and ef He is as strong as you say, He'd ha' helped us to find my little baby Roy." A pained look came over Meg's white and careworn face. She did not answer Faith at all for a moment or two; but having quite finished her dressing, she bent down over her. "I ha' made myself as clean as h'ever I could, and I'm off now to morning ragged school; ef you'll come too, I'll wait fur yer, Faithy." "No, no," replied Faith, shaking her head. "I'll stay and wait here. The ragged Sunday-school's all about Jesus, and I don't b'lieve in no Jesus now." Meg said nothing more; she smothered a faint sigh, and closing the door behind her ran down-stairs. She had more than a mile to walk to Sunday-school, and she was anxious to be in time; but as she walked along, the pained expression called up by Faith's words had not left her face.