“Yes, the best kind of love; about Jesus,” we replied. “Oh! I don’t know Him. I only love those I know,” he said, but he took the book. It is melancholy to see how many youths seem to know little of Him who died to save them. One Easter Sunday we ventured to attack a knot of them who were holiday-making. The pictures always attract, so they were soon engaged in contemplating them. “Is it about Jesus?” asked one. “Yes.” “Ah! He was a good man,” he continued. “He was your Saviour, and mine,” we added. “Do you believe it?” he inquired, with real earnestness. “Yes; the little book will tell you so.” What was the result? Who shall say? We are sometimes astonished at the eagerness of the men and boys, working in scores or even fifties, to secure the tract, leaflet, or magazine. The supply rarely answers the demand, for even from the tops of high houses in process of being built, we hear a shout of “Don’t forget us, please,” while the workmen on _terra firma_ volunteer to distribute as many as we can spare. All seize with avidity on _The Child’s Companion_, for all, or most, have families at home, and “something for the little ones” is a boon. “I read them out while my wife sees to the house,” said one. “I can’t afford to buy them, but I carry home all I can get.” “I read it to father, and father reads it to mother, and mother reads it to me,” was the satisfactory acknowledgment of a little girl who came in for one. “Here are two young gentlemen who would like to study them, I am sure,” said a master mason, indicating his juvenile aids, he having accepted one himself. The other day we were arrested by an old man, a scavenger, who said we couldn’t give him too many good books, for he loved them. “I was fifty-two years without entering a place of worship,” he added. “I was guard to a travelling wagon, and worked Sundays and weekdays. Four years ago I had a bad illness, and a lady converted me. I promised God, if He was pleased to restore me, that I would serve Him for the rest of my days. I thought I was dying, but I got better, thanks be to Him; and I have kept my word ever since. I have been to church three times a Sunday, and to mission-hall twice a week. I have been on my knees night and morning for twenty minutes, and I thank and praise the Lord.” It is this Sunday working which is the cause of so much irreligion. Turn where you will, those employed have the same tale to tell. They all say that if only they could be ensured every other Sunday they would be satisfied, but to have no Day of Rest was bad both for body and soul. Indeed, one of them argued that the soul perished with the body, and that he could prove it from Scripture. Here and there we find men brave enough to refuse all Sunday work, and they say they have not lost by it. “I never turn a wheel on Sunday,” said a cabman. “Many of us stand out against it, and all who do say they are better off than those who work.”