Then I thought of the organ. Of course my place at St. George's Borough was filled up. There are about a hundred churches in London, however: most of them have organs. I tried every one: and always with the same result: the place was filled. I thought of my old trade of fiddling to the sailors. Would you believe it? There was not even a tavern parlour where they wanted a fiddle to make the sailors dance and drink. Had Mr. Probus been able to keep me out of everything? Alice did her best to sustain my courage. She preserved a cheerful countenance: she brushed my coat and hat in the morning with a word of encouragement: she welcomed me home when I returned footsore and with an aching heart. Why, even in the far darker time that presently followed she preserved the outward form of cheerfulness and the inner heart of faith. The weeks passed on: my bad luck remained: I could hear of no work, not even temporary work: I began to think that even the Prison where I could at least earn my two or three shillings a day was better than freedom: I began also to think that Mr. Probus must have all the orchestras and music-galleries in his own power, together with all the churches that had organs. My shoes wore out and could not be replaced: my appearance was such as might be expected when for most of the time I had nothing between bread and cheese and beer for breakfast, and bread and cheese and beer for supper. And I think that the miserable figure I presented was often the cause of rejection. Chance--say Providence--helped me. I was walking, sadly enough, by Charing Cross, one afternoon, being weary, hungry, and dejected, when I heard a voice cry out, 'Will Halliday! Will Halliday! Are you deaf?' I turned round. It was Madame, my benefactress, my patroness. She was in a hackney coach. [Illustration: "I TURNED AROUND; IT WAS MADAM."] 'Come in,' she cried, stopping her driver. 'Come in with me.' I obeyed, nothing loth. 'Why,' she said looking at me. 'What is the matter? Your cheeks are hollow: your face is pale: your limbs are shaking: worse still--you are shabby. What has happened?' I could make no reply. 'Your sweet wife--and the lovely boy. They are well?' When a man has been living for many weeks on insufficient food: when he has been turned away at every application, he may be forgiven if he loses, on small provocation, his self-control. I am not ashamed to say that her kind words and her kind looks were too much for me in my weak condition. I burst into tears. She laid her hand on my arm, 'Will,' she said, as if she were a sister, 'you shall tell me all--but you shall go home with me and we will talk.'