Rob did not venture to do more than enter the low white-washed room in which he heard the hum of many voices. A poor-looking room it was; its only furniture, rough benches; its only ornaments, a few hymns and texts in large letters fastened on the wall. Rob stood close by the door, a shy, almost sullen spectator, watching the scene before him. The room was thronged with children, such children as, but for the Ragged School, would have been playing about in the streets. Little rough-headed urchins, who once had been foremost in mischief, pale sickly boys who looked as if they had had no breakfast that morning. Seated, some on the benches, some on the floor, they were conning their tasks with a cheerful industry which might have shamed some of the children of the rich. But a few minutes after the entrance of Rob, at a signal given by the teacher, a tall fair lady in mourning, books and slates were put back in their places, the morning's lessons were ended, and the school looked like a bee-hive when the bees are about to swarm. "Now we shall have the little address," whispered Sandy, who had kept all eye upon Rob; "the teacher is going to knock upon the floor with her parasol, and then, won't we be quiet as mice!" There was no need to call "silence;" two little raps upon the floor were enough to make every rough scholar in the place go back to his seat in a minute, and remain there as still as a statue. All the young eyes were fixed on the teacher, the gentle loving lady, who daily left her comfortable house to trudge, sometimes through rain, and snow, and sleet, to spend her time, her strength, and her health, in leading ragged children to the Saviour. Her voice was a little faint, for the lady was weary with her work, though never weary of her work, but her smile was kindly and bright as she began her short address. "I have promised to give you a story, my dear young friends," she began, "and as I am speaking in a Ragged School, and to those who are called Ragged Scholars, you will not be shocked or surprised if I choose for my subject—a Rag." The teacher's cheerful smile was reflected on many a young sunburnt face; rags were a theme on which most of the company felt perfectly at home, though few present, except poor Rob, actually wore the articles in question. "On a miry road," continued the lady, "trodden down by hoofs, rolled over by wheels, till it became almost of the colour of the mud on which it was lying, lay an old piece of linen rag, which had been dropped there by a beggar. Nothing could be more worthless, and long it lay unnoticed, till it caught the attention of a woman who, with a child at her side, was picking her way over the crossing." "'I may as well pick that up for my bag,' said the woman." "'Oh, mother, don't dirty your fingers by picking up that rag!' cried the boy with a look of disgust; 'such trash is not worth the trouble of washing! It's good for nothing; just good for nothing; it is better to leave it alone!'"