'It is no shame to me to do as I have done,' she said half appealingly, half defiantly. 'It is for bread for my dear child's life. I should stand with my face open to the people, if I had the courage. But I am a coward--a coward! and I shrink and tremble, as if I were a thief, with terror in my heart!' She a coward! Dear heart! Brave soul! Her voice grew softer. 'And O, Chris, my child! since I have stood there I have learnt so much that I did not know before. It has made me better--humbler. Never again, never again can I doubt the goodness of God! What good there is in the world of which we are ignorant, until sorrow brings us to the knowledge of it! When I first stood there, the world seemed to pass away from me, so dreadful a feeling took possession of me. In my fancy, harsh voices clamoured at me, cruel faces mocked me from all sides; I did not dare raise my head. But in the midst of my soul's agony, soft fingers touched mine, and the sweet voice of a child brought comfort to my heart. And then poor women gave, and I was ashamed to take. I held it out to them again, begging them with my eyes to take it back again; and they ran away, some of them.' The floodgates of my mother's heart were open, and she was talking now as much to herself as to me, recalling what had touched her most deeply. 'Two weeks ago a young woman came and stood before me. God knows what she was thinking of as she stood there in a way it made my heart ache to see. She was very, very pretty; very, very young. She stood looking at me so long in silence that I began almost to be afraid. I dared not speak to her first. I have never yet spoken unbidden in that place; I seem to myself to have no right to speak. But, seeking to soften any hard thought she may have had in her mind for me or for herself, I returned her look, kindly I hope, and pityingly too. "I thought I'd make you look at me," she said in a hard voice that I felt was not natural to her; "beggars like you haven't much to be proud of, I should say. Thank the Lord I haven't come to that yet!" I tried to shape an answer, but the words wouldn't leave my lips, and I could only look at her appealingly. Poor girl! she seemed to resent this, and tossed her head, and went away singing. But there was no singing in her heart. I followed her with my eyes, and saw her stop at a public-house; but she hesitated at the door, and did not enter. No; she came back, and stood before me again. "What do you come here for?" she asked, after a little pause. "For food," I answered. She sneered at my answer, and I waited in sorrow for her next words. "Have you got a husband?" "No," I said, wondering why she asked. "No more have I," she said. My thoughts wandered to a happier time, and pictures of brighter days which seem to have passed away for ever came to my mind; but the girl soon brought me back to reality. "Are you a mother?" she asked. "Oh, yes!" I answered, with a sob of thankfulness, for the dear