"Who is Prince, my boy?" asked Lady Mercy. "'E's our only friend. 'E's father and mother to all hus poor." "Is he beautiful?" she asked eagerly. "What, in the faice? Rather not." "Ah! then it cannot be he," said Lady Mercy sadly. "Why do you call him Prince?" "Becos 'e is Prince--the Prince of Pity. 'E's ill now; but 'e says 'e can't doi till something 'appens." "What?" "Oi der know. Somethink." "Where does he live?" "Hover there," said the boy, with a vague wave of his hand. "I will take you there if you will let me. Will you get into the carriage?" "What, in there?" "Yes." "Rather. Come on, Puddles." Lady Mercy helped the two forlorn creatures into her carriage, and placed the dog tenderly on the front seat. "Will you tell the coachman where to go?" "Yaas, droive ter Greenleaf Court." The Prince of Pity lay dying of want in one of the poorest quarters of the great city. His face was gaunt and weather-beaten, his eyes glazed and dull. A young child sat on the floor nursing a half-starved cat--both waifs of the street rescued from utter misery by the good Samaritan. Sorrow was always with the poor of Greenleaf Court; but now their affliction was more bitter than ever. Their dear master, who had devoted his life to them, and had given away all his worldly goods until he was as poor and destitute as they, the man who told them of sweet flowers and green meadows and silver streams, he who made peace in their quarrels, divided his scanty earnings among them, taught the children, he, their only stay in a world of suffering and want, was leaving them for ever. The Prince of Pity lay drowsing away to "poppied death." The wind wailed and sobbed round the house, and burst in at the door as Lady Mercy entered. She saw the man. His clothes were worn and old, but she beheld only his face; that face which even the poor who almost worshipped him thought ugly, was beautiful to her; it told of love and charity. She knew his life had been lived for others. "Ah, you have come at last!" he cried. "Welcome. I so feared I should die without any one to continue my work, and I asked the Wind that sprung up in the early hours to waft me some one hither." "He has obeyed you. I am named the Windflower; but, sir, you too have a beautiful title; they call you the Prince of Pity. Who are you?" "I am an unworthy follower of the man Christ." "You are then a Christian?" "I said the _man_ Christ. I belong to no Church. I profess no creed." "What do you do?" "My child," he said, and his voice sounded sorrowful like the sobbing of the sea, "my life's work is all in these simple lines,-- "'Rejoice with them that do rejoice, and weep with them that weep.'" "You are then he whom I seek. You are Terah, the breather of good. But, sir, you seem ill. Can I help you?" "Yes, care for my poor. Be to them all the Wind is to you; rock them into life, soothe them into death; sob with them in grief, shout with them in joy. I am going away." "Whither?"