One of these was a new poor law. There was to be no more separation of the aged poor from their friends. No more was the answer to an appeal for help in the last extremity to be “The House or Nothing!” If an old man or woman, or both, had sons and daughters, or grandchildren willing to undertake the care of the failing life, if only a little pecuniary assistance were given, the assistance was to be at once vouchsafed. Young men who had become absolutely penniless through affliction, or loss, or through no fault of their own were to be henceforth helped into some sphere of work where they could live by their own earnings. If they were ill, they were to be nursed back into health, or sent into a convalescent home; if they were idiots, to an asylum; or, if incapable, to a place where kindly patient teachers would foster the little spark of intelligence within them. The children were to be taken away from the workhouse into a home—or, rather, the great uncomfortable building was, in some cases, to be itself altered and made home-like. But, for the most part, the workhouse was to be true to its name. If a man refused to work for his wife and children, he was to be captured and brought there with them, and compelled to support himself and them, unless he preferred to starve. If he treated them cruelly, he was to be, for the second offence, punished with the lash; and it was wonderful how soon this treatment made cowardly brutes civil in their treatment of those who were weak. But, at the same time, everything was done that could be to make the workhouse a city of refuge, where those who had made themselves and one another wretched learned to love one another and be happy. And over these buildings were painted the words which Christendom was bent upon obeying, with shame that the obedience came so late: “All things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them.” CHAPTER XXXVI. FOR EVER AFTER? Twelve months later an old year was passing away in perfect calm. If it had been memorable for no other reason, the weather would have made it so, for no year had been more stormy or wrought more violently than this; now, however, as if it knew a late repentance, and had grown ashamed and sorry for the excesses of its hot youth, it seemed to be caring for nothing but to take and give the kiss of peace before it died. Nature was in a mood of profound sympathy. Enough snow had fallen to beautify all rugged and unlovely things; the wind had ceased its loud tones, and only spoke in whispers; the moon spread its light over the restful world, and the stars shone in the blue heavens like lamps of gold. There were thousands of people waiting in the expectancy of faith and hope, who felt that an augury of good had come to them with that night.