"Leaving the rail, we proceeded to visit the sick-bed of one of the voluntary workers in the Refuge. We found him recovering from a severe attack of enteric fever complicated with pneumonia of the right lung. A fine, handsome young man, once the leader of the singing in a philharmonic club, now the devoted servant of God, his whole anxiety seemed to be as to when he could return to his work. During our visit, it was most touching to see the tenderness and anxious care of his companion, a young man called Fred, a labourer in the large wine vaults at the docks, who, though smelling of wine, and his clothes saturated with the fumes of spirits, was a staunch teetotaller; and judging from the intelligent way in which he answered our questions, would be a valuable witness before any commission of inquiry into the practices which wine-sellers term 'mixing,' but which he vulgarly called 'adulteration.' Every night during the many weeks of illness Fred had paid his friend a visit, and watched over him with all the love of a Jonathan to a David. "We now pressed him into our service to conduct us through some of the many licensed lodging-houses and thieves' kitchens, which abound in the neighbourhood of Spitalfields. "On our way we met two little girls, matchbox-makers. The outline of their lives was given in a few moments. The father, a drunkard, had absconded six years ago, leaving his wife and six children to struggle with awful poverty as best they might, having previously so beaten and kicked his wife about the face, that she had become almost blind. 'Where's father now?' 'In the workhouse, stoneblind.' "In a room with a roaring fire were seated some thirty men and a few women with infants. The landlord's reception was anything but gracious. In answer to our 'Good evening,' he growled out, 'We don't want talk; those men want bread.' And hungry enough many seemed. So while one was sent for a supply of bread, which was received with unmistakable gladness, and devoured greedily, we spoke to them of that living bread which came down from heaven. All were interested, and one young man seemed to wince and to be ill at ease when the love of God was spoken of. I could not but feel that conscience was at work, perhaps memory carrying back his mind to a godly mother, who once had spoken the same loving words, but had gone to her rest in tears.