"Aha, good day, boys, good day," cried the old man, trying to smile. "Can ye find seats? Sit down somewhere and make yourselves at home. But ye see it's a poor home that old Israel can offer ye to-day." "But how are you getting along?" asked Peter, after the party had found seats. "Ah, God a'mercy, I won't complain, for he is taking meself and Molly home fast. Only cold and hunger are not kind helpmates, Mr. Hobbs, ye ken that, eh?" "Right well, Uncle Israel. And we have come to help you. Do you want any medicine?" "Nay, nay, the old 'ooman's got a' the medicine laid up we want. It's only the food an' heat we need. I can't wade through the drifting snow as I could once." "Suppose we send you a dollar's worth of other things, such as butter, flour, potatoes and the like--could you live a week on it?" [Illustration: Pure Religion Is Visiting the Fatherless and Widows in Their Affliction.] "Ah, yes, yes, boys, meself and Molly'd live a long, long while on that. But ye'll not do it for us." "Yes, we will." "Ah, it's too much." "No, no," cried Sam, "we've got to do it, Uncle Israel, for we six have sworn to help you through the winter. So spunk up." "D'ye mean that?" uttered the old man, clasping his thin, tremulous hands. "We do," they all answered, and then Sam added, "and while one of us lives, you shall not suffer the want of what one of us can give." A moment the old man bowed his snow-white head, and then while the big tears streamed down his face, he raised his eyes and murmured:-- "Oh! God's blessin' be on ye, ye noble boys. If me heart was gold, an' I could take it out an' give it ye--for it's yours all, all your own!" In a little while the six went away, promising to send or come back soon, and even after they had reached the yard they could hear the voices of Israel and his wife, both raised to God in blessings upon their heads. "I say, Sam," said Peter, "this is better than cigars and ale." "Don't say a word now," replied Sam, "for my heart's full, and I can't bear any more." Next, they drove through the biting wind and snow to the humble cot of Widow Manley. They found her in the only habitable room of her dwelling, sitting by a fire of chips and fagots, with a babe asleep in her lap, and engaged in sewing a coarse frock. Three other children were crouched by the fire, the eldest not yet eight years old. Mr. Manley had been one of the many unfortunates who are swept off by rum, and in the prime of early manhood he had gone, leaving a young wife with four children in absolute penury. "Ah, good day, Mrs. Manley." The woman would have arisen, but Sam Green placed his hand upon her shoulders to keep her down. "We have come," said Peter, seeing that she was anxious and fearful, "to see how you get along, and see if we can help you." "Help me, sir?" uttered the widow with amazement. "Yes; now tell us plainly how you are situated."