"Money thrown away, I assure you; they are a rascally set. If a man is willing to work there is work to be had." "I disagree, sir; work is most difficult to obtain. A character is needed. Many of these poor, suffering creatures have no recommendation that might entitle them to recognition at the hands of Christ's followers. And most of them are not in a condition to work. They have neither clothes, nor health, nor hope. Could you build with your feet through your boots? Could you lift heavy weights with no strength in your body and no hope in your soul?" "You forget I am not one of the unemployed," he said, smiling. "No? What do you do then?" "Well, I do not exactly do anything." "Then you are unemployed." "I have no regular work; but I try to follow in Christ's steps. I am a Christian like yourself. I believe that He was God, and worship Him as such." "Sir, I fear His would have been a poor, useless martyrdom if you were indeed a Christian. Go home and read His life; see what He says about the poor whom you despise. There, forgive me, I did not mean to say so much. But I think you are in the wrong. Good-night." "What an awful girl you introduced me to, Lady R----! She was positively insulting; a regular windbag, not a flower." "Didn't it make any impression? Poor Popsie," she replied, patting him with her fan, "I hoped she would interest you; she is in search of the Ideal. What a pity she did not recognise you! Never mind, I will introduce you to Baby Joy, the music-hall singer who married Lord Clare. You know? Come along." III. Years passed. Lady Mercy's first youth was over; her eyes had lost the light of hope--a wild, sorrowful expression filled them. She had never gone back to the country; she could not return to the happy home of her childish ideals, the joyless, broken-hearted creature she was now. She drove out one day in September. Gaily dressed women were shopping. Flower stalls of roses, carnations, marguerites, gave a foreign look to the city. A wild west wind, fragrant with the breath of autumn, rushed through the streets. Suddenly there was some confusion in the road. A policeman battled among a host of prancing horses and grand carriages. A victoria containing two gorgeously dressed ladies had run over a mongrel dog. One of its owners, a ragged girl, sobbed on the pavement, as her half-starved brother elbowed his way to the officer's side. "Our paw Jack; 'is leg's broke." "You should not let him run about in crowded streets," said one of the smart occupants of the victoria. "End yer shouldn't let yer cussed 'osses droive over the paw beast," replied the boy, taking it in his arms and trying to soothe its cries. "I was going to give you money, boy, but I shall not for your impertinence." Lady Mercy stood on the pavement comforting the little girl. "Never moind, Puddles," said her brother, coming up with the dog in his arms. "Our Prince will cure 'im." "Prince is doying, brother, you know thet."