“Yes, it is easy to say them,” returned the missionary, his voice dropping to a lower key, “and it may be of little use to say them. I am sometimes almost in despair, standing so nearly alone as I do with my feet on the very brink of this devastating flood of evil, and getting back only faint echoes to my calls for help. But when year after year I see some sheaves coming in as the reward of my efforts and of the few noble hearts that work with me, I thank God and take courage, and I lift my voice and call more loudly for help, trusting that I may be heard by some who, if they would only come up to the help of the Lord against the mighty, would scatter his foes like chaff on the threshing-floor. But I am holding you back from your purpose to visit the mayor; I think you had better act promptly if you would get possession of the child. I shall be interested in the result, and will take it as a favor if you will call at the mission again.” CHAPTER XV. _WHEN_ Mr. Dinneford and the policeman sent by the mayor at his solicitation visited Grubb's court, the baby was not to be found. The room in which it had been seen by Mr. Paulding was vacant. Such a room as it was!--low and narrow, with bare, blackened walls, the single window having scarcely two whole panes of glass, the air loaded with the foulness that exhaled from the filth-covered floor, the only furniture a rough box and a dirty old straw bed lying in a corner. As Mr. Dinneford stood at the door of this room and inhaled its fetid air, he grew sick, almost faint. Stepping back, with a shocked and disgusted look on his face, he said to the policeman, “There must be a mistake. This cannot be the room.” Two or three children and a coarse, half-clothed woman, seeing a gentleman going into the house accompanied by a policeman, had followed them closely up stairs. “Who lives in this room?” asked the policeman, addressing the woman. “Don't know as anybody lives there now,” she replied, with evident evasion. “Who did live here?” demanded the policeman. “Oh, lots!” returned the woman, curtly. “I want to know who lived here last,” said the policeman, a little sternly. “Can't say--never keep the run of 'em,” answered the woman, with more indifference than she felt. “Goin' and comin' all the while. Maybe it was Poll Davis.” “Had she a baby?” The woman gave a vulgar laugh as she replied: “I rather think not.” “It was Moll Fling,” said one of the children, “and she had a baby.” “When was she here last?” inquired the policeman. The woman, unseen by the latter, raised her fist and threatened the child, who did not seem to be in the least afraid of her, for she answered promptly: “She went away about an hour ago.” “And took the baby?” “Yes. You see Mr. Paulding was here asking about the baby, and she got scared.” “Why should that scare her?” “I don't know, only it isn't her baby.” “How do you know that?” “'Cause it isn't--I know it isn't. She's paid to take care of it.” “Who by?”