I got rid of him, and I am afraid that my temper was not sweetened in the endeavour. I had just settled down at my work when once more I was informed that a man wished to see me. The inevitable front-door again. I sometimes wonder how many silent vows I have registered on my own doorstep. The broken ones, I know, have been numerous enough to condemn me. Another old acquaintance this time. As I stand on the doorstep, the rain sweeps in at the open door. The poor fellow is soaked through; it is nearly ten o'clock; he is homeless and penniless. I can spare half a crown; he has it, and I direct him to the nearest lodging-house--not that he needed directions--feeling quite sure that he will there meet with my two previous visitors; possibly, too, will tell them of his success, and chaff them about their failure. But it was the rain that did it, and I hope that fact may be taken into consideration when judgment is delivered. True, by their continual coming they had wearied me, and by their persistence they had annoyed me; but the sight of a homeless vagabond in the pelting rain acted as a counter-irritant, and pity had to triumph over censorious judgment. So I went back to my desk knowing that I had done wrong; but somehow I had received satisfaction, for my temper was soothed. Perhaps it was good for me that I was not visited again that night by any discharged prisoners. For, poor fellows! they demand our pity; but how to transmute that pity into practical help is a difficult problem.