One evening last winter I read to them, from “The Book and its Mission,” some account of Marian, and what she was doing for her poor neighbours in St Giles’s. I saw they were extremely interested in the narrative; and I said to them—“Now, many of you, I know, feel to those about you as kindly as Marian; and if any of you think that you have time, and strength, and spirit, for this work, I believe that, without giving up your whole days to it (as, with you, that would be impossible), you might, by a little planning and arrangement, accomplish a great deal of good.” After the meeting was over, three of the women came to me, and offered their services in any way I thought best. As it was then too late to go into the subject, I invited them to tea on the following Wednesday. The three came, bringing with them a fourth, the mother of several little children, who apologised much for coming, especially as she had to bring her baby with her. She knew she couldn’t do much, but she couldn’t bear to be left out. She thought she might take her baby, and sit with a sick neighbour sometimes; or take care of some little children, with her own, now and then, if that would do any good. Two of the women were upwards of fifty years of age, and had then no children living with them; the other was one of those who attended our first meeting, and then told me, that she thought, if we went on with the society, she might look in now and then upon us: not that she wanted to learn anything; for, “I ’spect,” said she, “I know everything better than anybody can tell me.” In fact, that _her_ visits would be to give us her patronage. However, as we became better acquainted, we were soon good friends. She lost her husband a few months afterwards, and was left to struggle alone, with a family of boys, to whom she has done her duty, and they are truly rising up to call her blessed. With a very limited allowance from the parish, she managed, by washing and mangling, to earn enough to support them, and send them all to school; but the work was too hard for her. After the first year or two, I began to observe that she walked uneasily, and that the expression of her countenance indicated constant suffering. I soon found that she was suffering from an internal complaint, which, I feared, at first, admitted of no remedy. But, notwithstanding all she endured, she worked on, always saying she could bear anything but the workhouse, and separation from her children; and managed, in spite of such difficulties as would have sunk many a strong man’s heart, to keep her little home to herself, and retain over her great boys an almost unbounded influence. She became so very ill last summer, that I took her one day to “The London Home,” a kind of hospital for chronic diseases just established in our neighbourhood. The doctors spoke of her case, not only hopefully, but as one that could certainly be cured; but it must