So I felt I had disposed of that, and determined to keep to literature forevermore. The next day the card of a woman whom I had met in the highest social circles of Washington was sent to my room. As I came down through the hall I saw in front of the house her carriage with footman and driver and team of Kentucky-bred horses. When I entered she broke out in a sort of wail, “I hear you spoke at the Breakfast Association last night.” “Yes, and made a great guy of myself. I do not expect to ever go there again, except as a spectator. I fear I am more literary than religious.” I wish I could describe the next few minutes. Her face blazed. “You, you!” she said; “why you had a father a minister, your mother a praying woman, and you not to go there to speak to lost men, if you have the opportunity! You have had everything which training can give, and you refuse to reach a hand to lost men.” “Well, what does that concern you?” She sat down. The agony in her face became anguish. She turned white, then red, then back to white, till I feared for her heart. “What does it concern me! What! What! Well, I must tell you. I have a son who sits down in that awful crowd!” It was my turn now to be moved. “You?” I said, “why, you live in a white marble palace, and can it be that your son is a homeless, friendless man?” “Yes,” she said, “I live in a white marble palace and I hate it from turret to foundation stone, because my oldest son is not allowed under its roof. He is a drunkard, and will steal everything he can lay his hands on and sell it for drink, so that his father forbids me to see him or to give him money. The last time I saw him he was shoveling coal into a manhole; he looked the part.” Here she tried to give me a large roll of money, as she said, “Take this, and please go to the Breakfast Association and find my darling boy.” “Madam, I am not authorized to take money for the Association. Dr. Henderson is the Treasurer, do see him!” “I will not. Will know who you are. I told him much of meeting you in Washington. I want you to take this money and find and clothe my sorrowful son; and oh, say what I would like to say if I could talk like you! Tell him when he sees a light at the top of the house that his mother is in the attic praying for him, and will you pray for me that I shall not die under this? Will you pray for my son?” Then we two kneeled and poured into the heart of a loving Saviour that story of woe. How she wailed over her own frivolous life, and promised her God a life for Him. Nearly all the persons referred to have died, so, though the parties may be recognized in Philadelphia, it cannot now harm anyone.