“I am only like many other men of my day in my wish to remain unknown, and to do this thing anonymously. You may call me ‘Friend Philip’ if you will; and all our communications had better pass through the hands of my solicitors—Messrs. Smart, Watkin, and Smart. I cannot but hope that your reply may be in the affirmative. Think of the lives you may influence, the homes you may bless; and I pray you help me in this important work. We shall be the pioneers of the movement. Before many years are passed all the big cities—London, Liverpool, Manchester, Leeds, and my own Bristol—will consider a Training Home for Mothers as great a necessity as a workhouse or a gaol, and will support one out of the rates. This is surely a crusade for women; and it is worthy of your best powers. But if you will not undertake it I must find some other means of disposing of my money.—Believe me, with great respect, yours faithfully, FRIEND PHILIP.” Margaret might have been disposed to question the validity of this letter but for one from Mr. Smart which accompanied it, and which stated that the necessary funds for commencing the enterprise had already been lodged with his firm, subject to her consent to act. She was, naturally, greatly disturbed by the incident. How could she take up this work when her hands were full already? And it was not of such a life that she dreamed. No woman does. She may accept it, when God sends it, and find it full of wonderful content and exquisite joy; but her early dreams are of something very different from this. Margaret’s thoughts were of John. She hoped to prove that one young woman was capable of making one young man a good wife—when the time came. Her pleasantest occupations had to do with economical housekeeping, and her imaginings were of a bright little home where hands that love made clever were instead of gold. But in that home, in her dreams, there was always a seat for John’s mother, who had at last taken to her arms the Margaret whom she once despised and hated, and a pang shot through the girl’s heart as she acknowledged that this dream was as far from realisation as ever. She had declared that she would not marry John without his mother’s consent, and his mother had shown no sign of relenting. “Perhaps I am not to be happy, and God has sent me this work instead,” she thought. John was to call upon her that evening, but she scarcely knew how to wait until then. She must show him this letter even before Mr. Harris saw it, for John had the greater right. And what would he say but what she had said already, that this strange man who had written to her must find some one else to use his money and do his work? And yet, as Margaret thought the words she corrected herself. “It is God’s work, I am sure of that,” she said; “but I cannot think He wishes me to do it.” Margaret did with her letter as, many years before, King Hezekiah did with his. And then she tried to wait patiently.