Several years passed when, in company with a friend, I called upon her--still in the little room, still at the everlasting match-boxes; time, 1.30 p.m. From 6 a.m. she had been at it, and had just finished some work that must be sent back to the factory; she had earned 7½d. I wish again that I could describe the woman this time in her room. There in the corner is the little bed and but scant clothing upon it, but the poor sheets are clean; upon it lies her youngest child, a girl of eight. She has lain there eight weeks ill, and unable to move. No parish doctor for the mother; she is still too independent, and loves her child too much, to think of it, and she still remembers the promise made to the girl’s father. So she works the harder and starves herself the more, in order to pay two shillings a visit to a doctor. I timidly suggested the infirmary for the child, but well I knew what the response would be, and it came. ‘Don’t separate us, don’t separate us, Mr. Holmes. My heart is broke. I shan’t be long after my child,’ was all I could get from her. So I had again to begin my task, for I could not leave her in such misery. I told her story to friends, and liberal help was sent for her. I was enabled to furnish two rooms for her and the children. The boys had grown taller, but again they got good new clothing and boots, and better situations were found for them. The little girl was again sent to the country, and is now going to school; but the mother--the devoted, struggling mother--sometimes makes a few match-boxes; but oftener she lies ill in her bed, from which she will sometimes rise, and with failing strength, but with desperate endeavour, try to wash the sheets and clothing that have been provided for her. And so down to the grave she will go, working and struggling, her only hope to live long enough to see her children self-supporting--a hope that will not be realized. And such lives abound; it is my sad duty to meet with them--it is my joy and privilege to help them. Great are the opportunities given to my colleagues and myself to right some of the wrongs, to undo some of the evil, that our present-day civilization inflicts upon the innocent and the helpless. Men and women apparently forgotten alike of God and man meet us. Their very hopelessness appeals to us, and it must not appeal in vain. I can fight with a dipsomaniac, as Paul fought with beasts at Ephesus. I can throw myself into the existence of a burglar, till he becomes part and parcel of myself. I can feel a deep pity for the vice and drink smitten women upon the streets of London, but to the poor, the honest, hopeless, struggling, dying poor, my very heart goes out. ‘They are for a prey, and none delivereth; for a spoil, and none crieth, Restore!’