but I'm a different man now through her, a different and a better man, I hope, than I've ever been; and if I could serve her by suffering any pain that a man can suffer, I'd do it gladly, and thank the chance. It was late at night when Miss Hester gave her the letter from my poor girl, and her husband wasn't at home, but she went straight on her errand of mercy, and remained with my child, nursing and attending to her till daylight came; and when she went away she promised to go again, and she did, day after day, night after night, taking her sewing with her, for the minutes were precious, and bread for her family had to be earned. This went on, sir, for some time in secret without me ever knowing it, until my Mary was snatched from death's door by this bright angel. Then, sir, Mrs. Manners began to speak to me of my child; how she did it I can't remember, try my hardest; there was nothing sudden, no news all at once that my Mary had been almost dying, and nursed back to life by her; she softened my heart gradually in a cunning and beautiful way, bringing Miss Hester with her to my rooms, and making me feel, as the dear young lady moved about, doing this and that for me, how happy I might be once more if I could see my child doing as she was doing. Mrs. Manners's heart is not only a heart of love and mercy, it is a heart of wisdom, and when she had well prepared me, and had led up to it so that I couldn't have refused to do the hardest task she set me, then, sir, it was that she told me all that had happened to my Mary, and told me, in her loving, gentle voice, that it was my duty to open my arms to the child who had been led into wrong through her own innocence and helplessness, and perhaps through my own neglect. She didn't put this last thought into my mind; it came there out of my own sorrow and self-reproach, but it was Mrs. Manners who planted the seed. I took my girl home, hoping and believing that everything would be right, and resolved, too, to do all I could to make 'em right. But the contrary has happened, and another disgrace, that none of us but my Mary knew, is threatening me now. The companions she used to associate with won't have anything to say to her. The poor can be hard, sir, as well as the rich--I've found that out; can be hard, and unjust, and merciless. Perhaps it was my Mary's own fault. She went away a merry, chattering magpie, singing and laughing, and chirruping like a cricket. She came back quiet and melancholy, and she moves about as though she wanted to die. The only women friends she has are Miss Hester and her mother; she's faithful and loving to them, but often when they are gone I find her crying fit to break her heart. Now, sir, as was natural, I tried to get out of her the name of the man who has brought this ruin and shame upon us, but never a word would she let slip, even to them who proved themselves better friends to her than I was. Seeing she was so quiet