Mr. Worthy attended his afflicted friend to the funeral of his unhappy daughter and her babe. The solemn service, the committing his late gay and beautiful daughter to darkness, to worms, and to corruption; the sight of the dead infant, for whose sake he had resumed all his schemes of vanity and covetousness, when he thought he had got the better of them; the melancholy conviction that all human prosperity ends in _ashes to ashes, and dust to dust_, had brought down Mr. Bragwell's self-sufficient and haughty soul into something of that humble frame in which Mr. Worthy had wished to see it. As soon as they returned home, he was beginning to seize the favorable moment for fixing these serious impressions, when they were unseasonably interrupted by the parish officer, who came to ask Mr. Bragwell what he was to do with a poor dying woman who was traveling the country with her child, and was taken in a fit under the church-yard wall? "At first they thought she was dead," said the man, "but finding she still breathed, they have carried her into the work-house till she could give some account of herself." Mr. Bragwell was impatient at the interruption, which was, indeed, unseasonable, and told the man that he was at that time too much overcome by sorrow to attend to business, but he would give him an answer to-morrow. "But, my friend," said Mr. Worthy, "the poor woman may die to-night; your mind is indeed not in a frame for worldly business; but there is no sorrow too great to forbid our attending the calls of duty. An act of Christian charity will not disturb, but improve the seriousness of your spirit; and though you can not dry your own tears, God may in great mercy permit you to dry those of another. This may be one of those occasions for which I told you life was worth keeping. Do let us see this woman." Bragwell was not in a state either to consent or refuse, and his friend drew him to the work-house, about the door of which stood a crowd of people. "She is not dead," said one, "she moves her head." "But she wants air," said all of them, while they all, according to custom, pushed so close upon her that it was impossible she could get any. A fine boy of two or three years old stood by her, crying, "Mammy is dead, mammy is starved." Mr. Worthy made up to the poor woman, holding his friend by the arm; in order to give her air he untied a large black bonnet which hid her face, when Mr. Bragwell, at that moment casting his eyes on her saw in this poor stranger the face of his own runaway daughter, Mrs. Incle. He groaned, but could not speak; and as he was turning away to conceal his anguish, the little boy fondly caught hold of his hand, lisping out, "O stay and give mammy some bread." His heart yearned toward the child; he grasped his little hand in his, while he sorrowfully said to Mr. Worthy, "It is too much, send away the people. It is my dear naughty child; '_my punishment is greater than I can bear_.'" Mr. Worthy desired the