One morning, a very decent elderly woman, whom I had seen at the Mothers’ Meetings, asked me to call upon her husband, who had not been able to leave his house for some weeks, and was too ill to read. In the afternoon I went to the Potteries. Fortunately, I met a boy of my acquaintance in the street, and he conducted me to the dwelling, which, with the direction given me that “it was in no street in particular,” would have proved difficult to find. I had to pass through a kind of shed to reach the room in which this old couple lived; it was filled with feeding-troughs, tubs, old hoops, and wheel-barrows. I managed to steer safely through all this, and ascended two or three steps into the one chamber which served at once for bed-room, kitchen, and living-room. The man was sitting in a comfortable arm-chair by a neat little fire, and the room was very clean. His hair was perfectly white, and scantily covered one of the finest-formed heads I have ever seen. The features of his face were of a very uncommon order, and everything marked him as one of nature’s “men of power.” He scarcely noticed me when I entered; but his wife said, “This is the lady, John, as has the meeting.” He said, “Oh,” and gave me a kind of nod. The woman seemed annoyed at his want of cordiality, and said again, “John, I have told you about the lady often, and I went myself this morning to ask her to come and see you.” “I know,” was the laconic answer. I saw the first advances must come from me, so I took a seat by him, and said, “I am sorry to hear you have been suffering from illness so long.” “I am seventy-five years old; I have hardly had any illness all my life; I have done a deal of work, and God has been very good to me, and I am not going to grumble at Him now for shutting me up a few months.” “Your wife tells me you cannot read much, on account of your eyes; I suppose you find the time a little tedious after the active life you have led?”