the talking began, and some awful singing afterwards. On the day of which I write, there was a little extra excitement in the place. Christmas was coming, and all the good people for miles around had determined to give a treat to the wretched ruffians in the very worst part of the place—the big building to which I have already referred. When the leading man of the place, Carroty Bill, heard it, he swore that there should be no psalm-singing there. But his better-half modified his rage as she drew a lovely picture of creature comforts to be had—the boots for the children, the flannel for herself, and the extra money they would have for a jolly spree after all. ‘I ’ave been to one of their meetin’s,’ said she, ‘and we ’ad a rare good time of it, I can tell yer; tea, and coffee, such heaps of bread-and-butter, and plum-cake, and great meat-pies; it was well worth while a-settin’ an hour or two in a warm room while the parsons were a-talkin’; and rally you’d ha’ thought as how the ladies and gentlemen seemed to think as we were brothers and sisters. We wos quite a ’appy family, we wos.’ ‘And then to be preached to,’ said Carroty Bill, ‘arterwards. I’m blessed if I’ll go.’ ‘Well, I’ll take the children.’ ‘Not Joe; yer can’t take him.’ ‘Why not? he ain’t yer child.’ ‘I know that, but I wants him—that’s enough.’ Carroty Bill kept his word; he had an idea of his own in his thick head, and he was determined to carry it out. Unfortunately, at that time there was a good deal of antagonism between Church and Dissent. Generally, we know, it is otherwise, and they love each other as fellow-Christians ought—a love that does you good to contemplate. As the Dissenters gave the feed, it occurred to the Vicar and his curates to make a house-to-house inspection—to see for themselves the nakedness of the land, and to relieve it accordingly. At the bar of the White Horse the new move was announced, and Carroty Bill, as he sat smoking and drinking, hit on a plan of which he said nothing to his female partner—for wife she never was—till the time had come to carry it out. Said he, when he heard the Vicar was to come: ‘Here, Joe, you come along with me.’ ‘No; I want to go with mother.’ ‘You come along with me, or it will be the worse for yer, I can tell yer,’ said Carroty Bill, with a look which forbade all further thought of disobedience on the part of the poor boy. ‘You’ll make the boy as bad as yerself,’ said the woman, ‘let him come along with me.’ ‘Not if I know it,’ said the ruffian. ‘Why, wot’s up?’ asked the woman. ‘Wot’s that to you? The boy must come.’ And with a swelling heart, and a tear in his eye, the boy went. He was filthy, and ragged, and half starved. Yet there was something noble about the little lad’s face; had he been washed, and well dressed, and well fed, with his curly hair and fine forehead and bright blue eyes, he would have been as handsome a little fellow as was to be seen in the town.