ONE principal motive which has induced me to write this little book is the hope that, by facts and illustrations, I might remove the idea of _difficulty_ which many people attach to the management of such institutions as I have described. Many excellent and kind-hearted ladies have said to me, “I should be so afraid to attempt it.” “It must require a person very clever, I am sure; I should never be able to interest them.” These objections arise out of the mistaken notion that the necessary qualifications belong more to the head than to the heart; that some _great_ thing is required of us, rather than a _good_ thing. I received a letter, a few days ago, from a gentleman at Plymouth, in which he tells me of the progress of a Mothers’ Society in that town, conducted partly by his wife. Speaking of one of their tea-meetings, at which he had been present, he says, “Whilst there, I was much struck by the fact that, notwithstanding the great difference in our circumstances, our _wants_ are much the same. We all have anxieties to be allayed, weaknesses to be supported, sins to be forgiven, hopes to be assured, and aspirations to be encouraged. The maladies of all classes are the same, and require the leaves of the tree given for the healing of the nations. In this view we are one with the poorest and the lowest, and we speak _to_ them as one of them.” It is the realisation of this great thought of being one with them, which is the true qualification. No amount of ability will avail without this. When the head is simply to be stored with knowledge, the greater the ability which the teacher possesses the better. But the evils that we hope to remove by meeting the poor in this way, have more of a moral than a mental origin; and consequently they must be met as moral evils, proceeding from the frailty to which we are all liable. The great object of the teacher must be to awaken in the mind of the poor mother a deep sense of her _responsibility_; and this must be spoken of (and how truly!) as _our_ responsibility. The very slighting way in which poor girls generally hear themselves mentioned, the little account in which they are held, the absence, in fact, of almost everything that can make them feel of importance in society, induce a habit of thought very unfavourable to a conscientious discharge of their duties. The feeling I speak of is something perfectly distinct from either vanity or pride. It is the conviction that interests of great importance are committed to us, out of which arise duties for whose performance we shall be held responsible, not only to society, but to Him who has consigned these sacred trusts to our care, saying, “Occupy till I come.” I was lately visiting one of our poor women, whose progress I have now had the pleasure of watching for some years. She was lamenting the death of one of her favourite plants, and said—