"We can’t stay here any longer, miss," he said. "No"--Doris hesitated--"no, but----" she paused. "Where shall I take you, lady?" asked the cabman. "I don’t know," replied Doris miserably. The man stood waiting somewhat impatiently. All was silent in the square: there were no passers by, except one solitary policeman, who stood to look at them for a moment, and then passed on. "Drive me to an hotel, please," said Doris at length. "Yes, lady." The cabman drove her to two or three hotels without avail; either they were closed for the night, or the night-porter on duty refused to admit a lady without any luggage. Again the cabman came to Doris for orders. "What will you do?" he asked. "I don’t know," replied Doris, pitifully, with quivering lips. She felt terribly desolate and lonely. Fortunately for her the cabman happened to be an honest man, who had a wife and children of his own, therefore seeing his "fare" so helpless, and so entirely ignorant of the great city, with its immense dangers for a young and solitary girl, stranded in its midst, in the night-time, he suggested, "You might go to a decent lodging, lady, until morning." "Yes, I should be glad. But how can I find one? Do you know of one?" asked the girl desperately. "There’s my mother at King’s Cross. She’s poor, but respectable, and she lets lodgings and happens to have no one in them at present." Doris looked at him as he spoke. Could she venture to go to his mother? He seemed an honest man. And what else could she do? "Mother’s house is clean," continued the cabman. "She lives in a quiet street a few doors from where I live with my wife and children. Mother’s always been very particular about her lodgers: and she’s so clean," he persisted. "Any one might eat off her floor, as they say." The simple words appealed to Doris; they bore the stamp of sincerity, and so also did the honest kindly face of the poor man. But still she hesitated: her common sense told her she could not be too careful. "Perhaps you’d look at this, miss," said the man, putting his hand in his breast pocket and producing a small New Testament. He opened it and pointed to the inscription written on the fly-leaf, which Doris read by the light of the cab-lamp: "Presented to Sam Austin by his friend and teacher the Rev. Charles Barnett, as a small acknowledgment of his valuable assistance in the St. Michael’s Night School, London, N." "How nice!" said Doris. "Thank you for showing that to me. I will go to your mother’s. I am sure she must be a good woman." "She is indeed, lady. A better woman never lived, though I say it." "Drive me there, please," said Doris. The man shut the door of the cab and returned to his seat. An hour afterwards poor tired Doris found herself comfortably lodged in a small but respectable house near King’s Cross, and before retiring to rest she thanked God for His providential care of her during the difficulties and dangers of the night.