It's all real true : The story of a child's difficulties

By Eglanton Thorne

The Project Gutenberg eBook of It's all real true
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: It's all real true
        The story of a child's difficulties

Author: Eglanton Thorne


        
Release date: July 30, 2026 [eBook #79227]

Language: English

Original publication: London: The Religious Tract Society, 1881

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79227


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IT'S ALL REAL TRUE ***



Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.



[Illustration: MOLLY IN THE CHEMIST'S SHOP.]



                           [Illustration]

                        "IT'S ALL REAL TRUE."

               _The Story of a Child's Difficulties._


                                 BY

                           EGLANTON THORNE


                           [Illustration]


                               LONDON:
                     THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
           56, PATERNOSTER Row; 65, ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD;
                         AND 164 PICCADILLY.



                              CONTENTS.

CHAPTER.

    I. MOLLY AND KATHLEEN

   II. A SAD FAREWELL

  III. TWO LONELY GIRLS

   IV. THE THEATRE AND THE MISSION HALL

    V. MOLLY GAINS A TREASURE

   VI. DOUBT AND DISAPPOINTMENT

  VII. A STRANGE QUESTION

 VIII. MOLLY HAS A TALK WITH HER MINISTER

   IX. THE REST OF FAITH

    X. KATHLEEN IS A SOURCE OF GRAVE ANXIETY

   XI. A SISTER'S DANGER

  XII. KATHLEEN IS SAVED

 XIII. NO LONGER DESOLATE

  XIV. A WILLING SACRIFICE

   XV. MOLLY'S DIFFICULTIES COME TO AN END



                           [Illustration]

                        "IT'S ALL REAL TRUE."

                           [Illustration]

CHAPTER I.

MOLLY AND KATHLEEN.

NIGHT was falling on the city of London, a night of wind and
rain, following a day of clouds and gloom. The rain was sharp and
penetrating, and the wind piercingly cold.

No one would readily choose to walk abroad on such a night. Walking,
indeed, was no easy matter, for the pavements were wet and slippery,
and on the roads the horses could with difficulty be driven over the
mud. Yet, despite the cold and wet, wherever there were shops, the
streets were filled with people, for it was Saturday evening, and many
poor folk were unable to do their marketing for the morrow until this
late hour.

Along the Edgware Road, stalls had been placed beside the pavements,
and shrill-voiced costermongers were doing a brisk trade in more or
less tempting edibles, whilst more particular purchasers hurried to the
shops on either side the way. Into this thoroughfare, from one of the
narrower streets opening on to it, came a little girl. She walked with
rapid, certain step, and appeared in no way dismayed by the noise and
bustle around her.

Threading her way through the crowd gathered on the pavement, she
darted on to the road, and nimbly dodging the numerous vehicles, soon
gained the other side, and entered a chemist's shop there. The shop
was small and already full of customers, so the child, being tiny and
insignificant, had to stand in a corner and wait patiently till the
chemist had leisure to attend to her. She was a strange-looking child,
so small that no one would have taken her to be nearly eleven years
old, had not her pale, thin face worn a look of care, far older than
her age. Her figure was deformed, as well as stunted, for one shoulder
rose higher than the other, and the hump below was scarcely hidden by
the shabby cloak she wore.

The child shivered as she stood in the warm, bright shop, and tried
to shake the wet from her frock, which was of far too frail a texture
for that damp night. Then she pushed back the thick, wet locks of
reddish-brown hair that were falling over her forehead, and longing for
her turn to come, watched with shrewd glances of her dark, deep-set
eyes, the movements of the chemist, as with wonderful quickness he
supplied, one after another, the wants of his customers.

Her patience was sorely tried. No sooner did one person leave the shop
than another entered, and it seemed impossible for her to get near
the counter. Even when she did push her way to it, she was still kept
waiting, for she was but a child, and what did it matter whether a
child were kept waiting a few minutes more or less? But at last her
turn came.

"Well, Molly," said the chemist, sharply, but not unkindly, "what is it
you want?"

"Some more cough-mixture for father," she answered, hastily producing a
bottle from beneath her cloak, "and, oh! 'please,' sir, will you give
me something different this time? That other stuff didn't do father no
good. His cough is worse than ever."

"Dear, dear! That's bad," said the chemist, as he took the bottle from
the child's hand, "and it's ill weather for coughs. However, I'll see
what I can do."

Molly watched him eagerly as he proceeded to prepare the medicine. She
wondered how he knew which drug to take from so many, but he seemed to
experience no difficulty in selecting. And in a very few minutes, the
bottle was again in the child's hand.

"Do you think this will make father quite better?" asked Molly, as she
stood on tip-toe to place her shilling on the counter.

"I hope so," he replied, looking compassionately at the child, for he
had not the heart to tell her that he believed her father's cough to be
beyond his power to cure. "I hope so, my dear, but not if he goes out
this weather, you know."

"But he 'must' go out; he cannot stay at home," said Molly,
sorrowfully. "He has his work to do, and if he did not work, he would
get no money to pay the rent."

"Dear, dear! That's bad," said the chemist again. "But try to get him
to stay in for a few days, whilst this rough weather lasts. And give
him a dose of medicine to-night and another to-morrow morning, and
we'll see what that does for him."

In a moment Molly was out of the shop, and running across the road soon
reached her home in a narrow gloomy street, not far distant.

Passing into the house, she climbed a steep, and not too clean,
staircase, and entered a back room on the second floor.

It was a long, narrow room, with low ceiling and dingy walls. A slight
partition divided it at the farther end, and the space thus enclosed,
though hardly larger than a cupboard, made a little bedroom for Molly
and her sister Kathleen.

The place was in darkness when Molly entered, save for the faint,
flickering light of the feeble fire which burned in the grate. Its
light, however, sufficed to reveal the form of a tall, thin man, with
stooping shoulders and narrow, contracted chest, who bent shivering
over the fire, vainly trying to warm himself by its fitful glow.

"Is that you, Molly?" he asked, in a hollow voice, as the child opened
the door.

"Yes, father, it's me," she said, "and I've got some new mixture for
you, some stuff that Mr. Turner thinks is sure to make you well."

For thus had Molly's hope interpreted the chemist's few words.

But her father seemed to have little faith in the power of the medicine.

He sighed wearily, then exclaimed, in a fretful tone, "It's little good
the mixture is likely to do me, Molly, if you leave that door open,
with such a draught coming up the stairs as will give me my death of
cold."

Molly closed the door in a moment.

"There's no chance of my cough leaving me whilst this bitter weather
lasts," continued her father, "but when the spring comes—yes, when the
warm days begin, I may hope to get well. But it is a long while to
wait."

"Yes, there'll be a long time first," said Molly, sadly, as standing by
the fire she tried to stir the fading embers into a blaze.

"Put on some more coal, child!" exclaimed her father, peevishly. "I'm
almost perished with cold. You ought to have made up the fire before
you went out. And pray light a candle; I hate to sit in darkness."

"There's very little coal left," said Molly, as, having found a piece
of candle and lighted it, she proceeded to place a few tiny knobs of
coal on the fire, touching them very tenderly in her consciousness
of their value. "I want to make it last over to-morrow. Perhaps the
manager will pay Kathleen to-night, and then we can buy some more."

"To think I should live to depend on my darling's earnings!" sighed
her father. "Oh, dear! What will become of us? I've earned scarcely
anything this week; and next week will be worse, I fear. Molly, the
master told me to-day that he saw I was not fit for my work, and he
thought I had better keep at home till I was better. And he was right,
for indeed I could not make fair work of it to-day. I turned faint, and
was obliged to lay down my tools and rest for a while."

"Never mind, father," said little Molly, soothingly, though the anxious
look on her face deepened; "you'll be better in a few days, I daresay,
and able to go to work again."

Her words were interrupted by her father's violent cough. Molly watched
him fearfully as he struggled for breath.

"You must take some of this stuff at once," she said.

And fetching a cup from the cupboard, she poured out a dose of medicine
and held it to his lips.

He drank it, and soon ceased to cough. "You are a good child, Molly,"
he said; "you remind me of your mother, for you've got her ways
somehow, though you're not a bit like her in the face. Kathleen is
more like her. Ah! My pretty Kathleen! To think she should dance at a
theatre for the sake of earning a few shillings! But what could I do?
The child wanted to earn money, and it seemed the easiest way."

"Don't you trouble about it, father," said Molly; "Kathleen does not
mind it; she says she likes the fun."

"That only makes it worse," he answered, sharply; "it's not the right
sort of life for a girl to lead. But you don't understand; how should
you, you poor little thing? You don't know what a bad world it is. But
you'll find it out one day, Molly. You'll see that it's a bad, cruel
world, where no one is to be trusted, and you must fight your own way,
for there's no one to help you or care for you."

He spoke in a tone of despair.

Molly's sad face grew sadder as she listened.

"I've had a hard struggle," continued James Macardie, taking a
sorrowful review of his past history; "and I've always been the most
unlucky fellow in the world. Everything has been against me—yes,
everything. I've never had any of the happy chances which fall to some
men's lot; such luck as my brother Tom had, for instance. There is he,
now making his fortune in Australia, I'll be bound, whilst I—see what
I am! No one to look at me would think that my father was a well-to-do
cabinet maker at Liverpool."

"Does your brother Tom know how poor you are?" asked his little
daughter.

"No, he knows nothing about me. We had words together before he went
abroad. He interfered with me in a way I could not stand, and I would
have nothing more to say to him. He wrote to me once or twice after he
reached Australia, but I took no notice of his letters. I was sorry for
it afterwards, and wrote to him several times asking him to overlook
the past, but it was of no use. My letters were never answered."

"Perhaps he never got them," said Molly.

"Perhaps not. I can't tell how it was, but I was sorry, for I thought
he might do something for Kathleen, if he did not care to help me
again. Poor Kathleen! Dancing at a theatre! Oh! I thought to bring her
up so differently! I meant to give her a good education and make a lady
of her. I was so proud of my pretty Kathleen, with her quick, bright
ways and roguish tricks."

These plaintive utterances were succeeded by another fit of coughing,
and thoroughly exhausted, he was obliged to lean back in his chair and
keep silence.

It was growing late. Molly spread a cloth on the table, and placed
thereon part of a loaf of bread, and a piece of hard, dry cheese. Then
she sat down quietly by her father's side, regarding him with sorrowful
glances, for she thought she had never seen him so ill as he seemed
to-night. She was frightened therefore when he suddenly roused from the
doze into which he had fallen, and glancing at the old Dutch clock in
the corner, got up from his chair, crossed the room with feeble steps
and took down the coat and hat which hung behind the door.

"Oh! Father!" she exclaimed. "You will not think of going out again
this night! Indeed you are not fit."

"You forget that Kathleen must be fetched from the theatre," he
answered, hoarsely, as with trembling hands he put on his coat. "I
would not have her come home alone through the streets for the world.
I will take care of her whilst I can, my poor Kathleen. I ought never
to have consented to her going to that place, but I will do my best to
shield her from its dangers."

Molly said no more, for she knew it would be useless. Her face wore a
look of fear, as candle in hand she stood at the top of the stairs to
light her father, as grasping the rickety balusters for support, he
went down.

She listened to the sound of his footsteps after he had passed out of
her sight. They seemed to grow fainter and fainter, till suddenly the
sound ceased, though she knew her father could not yet have left the
house. Molly rushed down-stairs in a moment. Below she saw her father,
overcome by sudden faintness, clinging for support to the open house
door, while the cold damp air beat upon him.

"Father, come in," cried Molly; "you are ill, you cannot go!"

"No, I must give it up," he murmured; "I cannot go, I have no strength.
But oh! Kathleen!"

"Never mind about Kathleen, father," said Molly, as she helped him up
the stairs. "I will go and meet her, and tell her how ill you are."

"You go, child! How can you take care of Kathleen? You need taking care
of yourself, you poor little thing!"

"But, father, I'm not like Kathleen, you know. I can go out alone in
the evening, and no one takes any notice of me. I should be company for
her."

"That's true," said her father, as he sunk weariedly into his chair;
"no one will notice a child like you. You may go, Molly. Make all the
haste you can, and tell Kathleen to come home quickly by the quietest
streets."

Molly lingered for a few minutes, not liking to leave her father in
such a weak state. But he was impatient for her to be off, and would
not let her stay.

So out into the cold, wet streets again went Molly. The strong wind
drove against her, and the pitiless rain drenched her light garments,
but she struggled bravely on, and soon reached the theatre where
Kathleen was to be found. No one observed the little deformed child as
she sped along through the wind and rain.

She reached the theatre just as the people were beginning to come out.

Elbowing her way through the crowd at the main entrance, she went to
a side door at which her father had told her to await Kathleen. She
had to stand for many minutes shivering in the cold ere any one issued
from this door. At last, however, it was opened and the players began
to come out. Some bold-looking girls appeared, who talked and laughed
loudly as they brushed past little Molly, standing in the shelter of
the doorway. Kathleen was not with these. Presently she came out alone
and stood for a moment on the steps, peering into the darkness beyond.

"I cannot see father anywhere," she said to herself, half aloud.

"I am here, Kathleen!" exclaimed Molly, springing forward. "Father was
so ill, he could not come, so he sent me."

"Father ill!" said her sister. "What do you mean?"

"His cough has been worse than ever to-day," replied Molly. "And when
he was coming to meet you, he turned so faint, he could not get along.
So I've come instead, and father said I was to tell you to come home as
quickly as possible by the quietest streets."

"All right, let's make haste," cried Kathleen, starting off at so quick
a pace that Molly could hardly keep up with her.

No one looking at the two as they hurried on their way would have taken
them for sisters. There was nothing attractive in Molly's thin, wizened
face, with its unchildlike look of care, but Kathleen's was a face
which could not fail to call forth admiration.

Her eyes shone like stars beneath the bright black tresses which waved
on her brow; her cheeks were round and rosy, her lips like coral, and
her look free and careless as that of a child. She was in truth little
more than a child, being but fifteen years old, though tall for her
years, with a pretty figure and graceful bearing. She differed from
Molly in character as much as in appearance.

Kathleen was one to take things easily. Care could not lay hold on her
as on little Molly. She would be cross and fretful when things were not
to her mind, but she had a happy knack of shaking off her annoyance in
a moment, and making the most of every bit of enjoyment which came in
her way.

Molly knew well that she was not like Kathleen. The sense of
inferiority to her sister kept her humble, and she never dreamed of
resenting the way in which Kathleen tyrannised over her. Sometimes it
pained her to think how different they were. She knew her father did
not love her as he loved Kathleen. She was poor little Molly, ugly and
crooked; he could take no pride in her.

Little love or care had Molly's childhood known, for her birth had
cost her mother's life, and her father had no welcome for the sickly
babe which brought such trouble to his home. Yet Molly had lived to
repay with warm love the indifference with which her father and sister
regarded her. And though she often wished she were more like Kathleen,
no envy mingled with the wish to prevent her taking a loving pride in
Kathleen's beauty.

"Has the manager paid you, Kathleen?" inquired Molly anxiously, as they
went along.

"Yes, he has paid me. Listen!"—And Kathleen shook her pocket that Molly
might hear the shillings rattle. "Doesn't that sound nice? What say
you—shall we buy some hot pies for supper?"

"Father might like one, perhaps," said Molly. "He has eaten scarcely
anything to-day, and we've nothing but bread and cheese. But don't buy
one for me. There are such lots of things to buy. We want coals and
candles, and almost everything, I think."

"I wonder when father will be able to do full work again," said
Kathleen, discontentedly; "it's rather hard that my money should have
to go for coals and candles."

"Kathleen," asked Molly, gravely, "have you ever thought—what if father
should die?"

Kathleen started at the unexpected question, and the colour left her
cheek for a moment, but it quickly returned as she replied in a tone of
angry remonstrance:

"What do you mean, Molly, by saying such a thing? Father is not likely
to die; there is nothing the matter with him but a cough. I wish you
would not frighten me so."

"I am very sorry," returned Molly, humbly. "I did not mean to frighten
you."

"What can have put such a thought into your head, I can't imagine,"
added Kathleen, still looking disturbed.

"I don't know," said Molly, "it came to me quite suddenly, and I could
not get rid of it. But I'm glad you think it won't happen."

"Of course not. Don't name such a thing to me again, pray."

"No, I won't," said little Molly; and she kept her word.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER II.

A SAD FAREWELL.

IT was Sunday night, some weeks later. The bells of the churches rang
clearly on the keen frosty air, and from the squares and terraces lying
near the Edgware Road numbers of well-dressed folks were hastening to
attend evening service. Not that all who trod the pavements were abroad
for so good a purpose. There were at least as many pleasure-seekers as
church-goers passing along the road. The clatter of cabs and omnibuses
was almost as great as on a week-day. Here and there a shop might be
seen open, whilst at every corner stood groups of idle lads and giddy
girls, whose empty laughter fell harshly on the ear. Wending her way
amidst the motley crowd of pleasure-seekers and church-goers, with
quick step and eager anxious face, came little Molly.

But it was neither pleasure nor piety which had brought her forth
on this sharp winter's night. She knew little enough of either,
poor child. She had never been inside a church in her life, and her
knowledge of religion was limited to some vague notions picked up in
the days when her father had been able to send her to school. She knew
the name of God as that of a mighty Being who lived in a far-off place
called heaven. But of the Father's love for His children, and the Son
He gave to save them, she was as ignorant as any heathen child.

Perhaps if her mother had lived, Molly would have learned to love the
Saviour. But her father had no religious faith, and his children had
grown up with scarce any knowledge of Christian truth.

It was a sad errand on which Molly was bound this evening. She was
hurrying along to find the parish doctor, and get him to come to her
father, who to-night was so very ill that even Kathleen was alarmed. He
had not gone to work since the day when he returned home so ill. His
strength had declined rapidly from that time, and now for many days, he
had been unable to leave his bed.

Molly gained the doctor's door only to learn that he was from home,
and would not be back for some hours. She was cast down at hearing
this. But the servant promised to tell the doctor of her father's case
as soon as he should return. And with this promise, Molly had to be
content.

Weary and sad, the child turned her steps towards home. As she drew
near the house, she saw a crowd of persons gathered at the corner of
the street, to listen to the words of a young man who was addressing
them in clear, animated tones. Molly looked curiously at the people,
but was passing on her way, when the speaker's words reached her ear,
and so attracted her that she could not help standing still to listen.

   "Friends," she heard him say, "I have good news for you to-night. Yes,
good news for every one of you. No matter how poor and sad, how wicked
and miserable you may be, there is a Friend who loves you. He loves
you, but He does not love your sin. No; He wishes to save you from your
sin, for it is your greatest misery, and He can save you, however vile
and bad you may be, if only you will put your trust in Him. You may
have wandered far, far from all that is good and holy, you may have
gone astray like a lost sheep, but you have not got beyond the reach of
this Friend, 'for the Son of man is come to seek and to save that which
was lost.'

   "I wonder if any one of you knows what it is to be lost? Have you ever
been benighted on a dreary moorland, and wandering from the track lost
yourself on the wild waste, without a guide, without a light, all alone
in the darkness?

   "Ah! If so, you remember how glad you were when you saw the gleam of a
light, or heard the sound of a voice, or felt the grasp of a friendly
hand willing and able to guide you on your way.

   "Friends, there are many lost souls in this great city of London. What
a wilderness it is, with its numberless streets and lanes, its dark
courts and slums! What pitfalls there are to catch unwary feet; what
perils, seen and unseen, on every hand! Oh! The sin and misery which
lie around us! But in the midst of it all, the Son of man is seeking
His lost children. He is calling them to come to Him that He may make
them good and happy. Oh! Who would wander alone in such a desert, when
there is this loving Friend waiting to lead willing feet out of the
darkness and danger into the safe and happy pastures where the Good
Shepherd feeds His flock? The Son of man is come to seek and to save
that which was lost."

Molly heard no more. She would have liked to listen longer, but she
dare not stay. "I wish I knew what it all meant," she said to herself,
as she ran home.

Her face grew very grave when she entered the room and saw her father's
state.

He was lying propped up in bed, with a look of bitter anguish on his
pale, wasted face, as he struggled for breath. Kathleen stood by the
bed, sobbing bitterly, and the landlady of the house, who had come to
offer assistance, was also present.

"Is the doctor coming?" asked this woman, when she saw Molly.

"I could not find him," said the child; "he was away from home."

"Ah! Well, it can't make much difference," the woman observed, in an
undertone.

Molly wondered what she could mean.

But she did not explain her words, and having done what she could for
the sufferer, she went down-stairs again.

Molly crept close to the bed, and took her father's hand in hers. He
slightly pressed it, then extending the other, signed to Kathleen to
come nearer. She came and stood by Molly.

"Kiss me, my darling child," he said.

Kathleen stooped down and kissed him. Molly too pressed forward for a
kiss, but her father scarcely heeded her caress.

"My pretty Kathleen," he said, tenderly and sorrowfully, "my precious
child, how can I leave you? Yet I must, I must. There is no help for it
now."

"Oh, father! Do not talk so," cried Kathleen, in a passion of tears;
"you cannot, you must not leave me."

"There is no help for it," he repeated, mournfully; "do you think I
would not stay, if I could? How can I bear to leave you all alone? What
will become of you, with no one to take care of you? You will be lost,
you and Molly, in this wilderness of London!"

"This wilderness of London!" Molly thought of the preacher's words in a
moment.

Would it comfort her father to hear what she had heard? It was not easy
to speak, with such a lump rising in her throat, but she forced back
her sobs, and asked in a little, quavering voice, "Father, have you
ever heard tell of the Son of man?"

He started at her words, and turned his eyes upon her with an eager,
wistful gaze.

"Molly, what do you mean? Who has been speaking to you?"

"It was a man I heard in the street," she said; "he kept saying these
words:

   "'The Son of man is come to seek and to save that which was lost.'"

"Tell me," he said, feebly, still with that painful, yearning
look—"tell me all that he said."

As well as she could, Molly repeated what she had heard the preacher
say.

Her father seemed to drink in eagerly every word she uttered. And when
she stopped, he begged her to tell him more.

Molly could only say the same again.

"Ah! I have heard that before," said her father; "your mother used to
talk like that. She believed in religion, but I never did. I wish I
knew if it were true. But it's too late now. Oh, if only I had thought
more about these things when I was well and strong. Oh, children,
don't think to make yourselves better when you lie on a death-bed. It
is too late then, depend upon it. Your mother used to tell me that I
must repent and believe, but how can I repent now? I don't know how to
repent and believe. It's too late—too late!"

He ended with a groan, and quite exhausted with the effort he had made
to utter these words, said no more.

It was piteous to see his mournful look, but what could little Molly in
her ignorance say to comfort him? Nothing. All she could do was to show
her loving sympathy by keeping close to his side, and tenderly stroking
his wasted hand.

For a long time there was silence in the room, broken only by the sound
of the sufferer's labouring breath. Kathleen crouched sobbing on the
hearth-rug, whilst Molly sat beside the bed holding her father's cold,
clammy hand in hers. The evening wore on, but the doctor did not come.
Gradually the noises in the house ceased, as one after another the
lodgers retired to rest.

Kathleen had sobbed herself to sleep, and Molly was growing drowsy,
when she felt her father's hand move in hers. Wide awake in a moment,
she turned towards him. He was leaning forward, and looking at her with
such a strange, piteous look. He tried to speak, but his voice had
grown so faint that she had to put her ear close to his lips in order
to catch the words.

"Molly," he whispered, "promise me you will always take care of
Kathleen. You are younger than she, but you are wiser than your age.
She is not like you. You must watch over her. Promise me."

"I will, father. I will indeed," said Molly, tremulously, "but oh,
father, why do you say this?"

He did not reply, and there was silence again.

Molly was trembling with fear, but her father's hand lay in hers, and
she could not move to rouse Kathleen. After a few moments, he once more
strove to speak, but she could with difficulty make out his meaning.

"Say it again," he seemed to say, and then she caught the words—"about
the Son of man."

"You want me to tell you what I heard the man say?" asked Molly.

He gave a feeble sign of assent, and slowly and distinctly Molly
repeated the words—

   "'The Son of man is come to seek and to save that which was lost.'"

Again his lips moved, and Molly, bending down, heard him murmur, "I'm
lost—lost! Oh, if only—"

The voice died away in inarticulate mutterings. But after a time, she
fancied she heard him whisper—"to seek and to save—to seek and to save."

He said no more, and the hand that she held seemed to grow cold and
heavy in her grasp. Little Molly gently rubbed it between her own
hands, then held it to her bosom, vainly trying to warm it, for it
remained cold as ever. Her father's breathing grew more slow and
irregular. But the child knew not what it meant, till at last there
came a long, deep sigh, followed by utter silence.

Molly's own heart seemed to stand still in that sudden hush. For a few
moments, no sound broke the stillness. Then some cinders fell with a
clatter from the fire to the hearth, and Kathleen started and awoke.

"Oh, Molly, how is father?" she cried, as she rubbed her eyes and
looked towards the bed. "Is he asleep?"

Yes, truly he was asleep; but it was the sleep of Death.



[Illustration]

CHAPTER III.

TWO LONELY GIRLS.

ERE many days had passed, James Macardie was laid to rest in an obscure
corner of a crowded cemetery. His was a rough, parish funeral, and no
one, save his two children, mourned at his grave.

Their hearts were very heavy as they turned away from the dreary spot,
feeling utterly alone in the world.

"We have only each other now, Kathleen," whispered Molly, clinging
close to her sister's side.

But Kathleen made no reply, and seemed hardly aware that her sister
spoke. The poor girl's grief was wild and passionate. She had sobbed
till she could sob no more, and her eyelids were so red and swollen
that she looked quite unlike the pretty Kathleen in whom her father had
taken such pride.

Molly wept more quietly, but perhaps her sorrow was even greater than
her sister's. Certainly it pressed upon her heart long after Kathleen,
in the excitement of her engagements at the theatre, had shaken off all
signs of grief. And yet the father whom she mourned had never shown
much affection for little Molly.

To neither of his children had he been a very good parent, for his
indulgence of Kathleen had been as unwise as his utter neglect of
little Molly. His had been a sinful, wasted life, for though he had
ever considered himself an ill-used man, the truth was that his own
foolish, thriftless habits had been the cause of all the want and
distress which had troubled his last days. He had come to see this when
health and strength were gone, and it was too late to do better. He
felt then it was his own fault that his death would leave his children
in such poverty.

Remorse was keen when he reflected that his darling Kathleen, the
lovely child of whom he had been so proud, would be left without a
friend to guard her from the perils which must surround her girlhood.
Fears for Kathleen's future had distressed him as he felt his end
approaching, and the promise he had gained from little Molly had but
slightly calmed his dread.

The two children were indeed in a most desolate position. They had
but just returned from seeing their father laid in his grave when
the mistress of the house in which they lived came to tell them that
she should soon want to let their room to another lodger, so they
had better lose no time in getting ready to move. She reminded them
that they owed her several weeks' rent, and glancing around the room
obligingly named the articles of furniture she was willing to accept
instead of money.

Molly and Kathleen looked at each other in dismay. Where could they
find another home if they were turned out of this shelter?

"You cannot expect us to leave at once," exclaimed Kathleen,
indignantly. "You will give us time to find another place, I suppose?"

"Oh! Kathleen, where can we go?" cried Molly. "Shall we have to go
to a horrid place like Ivy Court, where the women are always drunk
and quarrelling? Oh, dear! I wish we could stay here." And she looked
wistfully round the familiar room.

"I don't want to be hard on you," said the woman, "but it's not likely
I could let you have one of the best rooms in the house for the small
sum you would pay. However, there's a little room higher up which I can
let to you for a trifle."

And to this room the girls agreed to remove on the following day,
though they were far from pleased with the look of their new home.

It was a bare, little garret, draughty and cold, with no window save a
skylight. It had been empty for a long time, and dust lay thick on the
floor. The window was darkened with dirt, and innumerable cobwebs hung
from the ceiling.

Molly's heart sunk within her at the first sight of the room, whilst
Kathleen burst into tears, and declared passionately that she would
rather die than live in such a hole.

"Never mind, Kathleen," said Molly, bravely; "the room is dirty now,
but it can be made clean. You go to rehearsal as usual, and I'll ask
Mrs. Jones to lend me a broom, and see if I can't make the place look a
little tidier by the time you come back."

"You, Molly! As if you could clean the room!" cried Kathleen. "It's a
strong woman's work to make this place decent. Mrs. Jones ought to do
it for us, but I suppose it's no use asking her. She's a horrid woman,
and I hate her."

"There's a many worse than she," observed Molly.

"Then I hope I may never know them," said Kathleen. "However, I must
be off to the theatre, or there'll be no money for us. Isn't it a good
thing, Molly, that poor father let me try the dancing? You know he
couldn't bear the thought of it, when Miss Evans, the actress, first
named it to him. But what would become of us now if I had not this way
of earning money?"

"I s'pose there are other ways," said Molly; "you might have got a
place as servant somewhere."

"Servant, indeed!" returned Kathleen, with a proud toss of the head. "I
think I see myself drudging as a maid-of-all-work. No; I would rather
starve than do that! But I really must go, so good-bye. I wish you joy
of your sweeping."

Left to herself, Molly could no longer keep back her tears. There was a
sore, hopeless feeling at the child's heart.

"Oh, father, father!" she sobbed, as she stood in the middle of the
cold, dismal room. "I want you so badly. How can we get on with no one
to take care of us, not a single friend to help us?"

Then Molly remembered the words of the street-preacher. "I wish I
knew who that great, kind Friend is who loves every one," she said to
herself. "Somehow I don't believe He's a real person. If He were, I'd
try to find out where He lives, and I'd go and ask Him to take care of
Kathleen and me. I told father I would take care of Kathleen, but I'm
such a poor little thing, I can't do much for her. However, I'll try
if I can't make this place look a little better by the time she comes
home."

And drying her tears, Molly set to work without loss of time.

Borrowing a broom of Mrs. Jones, she began to sweep, and soon raised a
cloud of dust, which almost choked her.

Fortunately, Mrs. Jones came to the rescue, and showed her how to go to
work, and how to scrub the floor when it was swept.

It was hard work for one so small, but Molly kept at it bravely, though
her head and back ached, and the tears would fall as she worked. She
was bent upon making the room look homelike by the time Kathleen
returned.

She would scarcely have succeeded in doing so, however, had she not
received unexpected help. She was toiling up the steep staircase about
noon, carrying a pail of water almost as big as herself, when a cheery
voice from behind cried—

"Here, little 'un, give me that. I reckon I can get it upstairs quicker
than you."

And ere she could recover from her surprise, the pail was caught out of
her hand, and carried to the top of the house in less than no time. It
was Ned Jones, the landlady's son, who did her this good turn. He was
a big, stout lad, fast growing into a man, and with a true man's heart
beating beneath his fustian jacket.

Molly had often seen him as she went in and out of the house, but she
had never spoken to him until this day.

"Oh, thank you!" she cried, as she came up breathless. "That's a nice
help."

"So you're moving in here," he said, looking into the room; "you're a
little bit of a thing to do such work as this. Is there anything I can
do? Ah! Yes. I see that window wants a polish, and you can't possibly
reach up to do it. Give me a cloth, and I'll give it a rub."

And he rubbed away with hearty good-will, and soon effected a great
improvement in the appearance of the glass.

Then he helped Molly to carry up the bedstead from the room below, and
such pieces of furniture as were too heavy for the child to lift alone.
It was soon done, for there were not many things to move.

"Upon my word, the little room looks quite cosy now," Ned said, as he
went away. "And I can tell you not many of the lodgers' rooms look so
clean as you have made this look. You're a rare smart little girl,
Molly."

"Who'd have thought he'd have been so kind?" said Molly, when he had
gone. "I did not think there was any one so nice in the house. Really,
he seems quite like a friend now."


Kathleen, on her return, was much surprised to see the change in the
room.

"You 'are' a good little thing, Molly," she said. "However did you
manage it?"

Then Molly told the story of her morning's work, and the help Ned had
given her.

"I'm very glad you got it all done before I came back," said Kathleen,
"for I am dreadfully tired and hungry. Is there nothing but dry bread
for dinner?"

"I've got a little bit of butter for you," said Molly; "it's all there
is left, and there's no money for any more. No! Don't give me any!" she
cried, as her sister offered to halve it. "I would just as soon eat the
bread without."

And she turned her eyes away from the butter, and cheerfully munched
her dry crust.

"You do love me a little, don't you, Kathleen?" she asked presently,
laying her hand softly on her sister's arm.

"Oh yes, Molly, of course," responded Kathleen, with some impatience,
as she shook off her sister's hand; "you're my sister, you know, though
no one would think so to look at us. We're not a bit alike."

"Oh no! We're not a bit alike!" echoed Molly, with a sigh. "Father
often used to tell me so. Poor father! He was 'very' fond of you,
Kathleen."

"Yes, he was," replied Kathleen, tears coming into her beautiful dark
eyes. "Poor father! How shall we get on without him?"

"I wonder if father's brother Tom will ever come back to England," said
little Molly; "if he did, he might take care of us."

"If he could find us," returned Kathleen; "you forget that father had
heard nothing of him for years. Uncle Tom may be dead, for aught we
know. But if he is alive, and ever comes back to this country, he won't
know where to look for us, for we have moved from one place to another
since father wrote to him. He would not think of looking for us in this
wretched little street."

"No more he would," said Molly; "I did not think of that. Father said
that he was making his fortune in Australia, so he would be quite a
rich man, I suppose."

"Then I wish he would come back and somehow manage to find us,"
remarked Kathleen. "Oh, how nice it would be to be rich!"

"Do you remember mother, Kathleen?" Molly asked, after they had been
silent a few minutes.

"How often you ask me that question!" returned Kathleen. "I've told you
ever so many times that I have just a faint recollection of sitting
on her lap when I was a little girl. I don't know whether I really
remember it, or whether father told it to me."

"And she used to brush your hair, and curl it round her finger, and
kiss you, and call you 'little Kathie?'" said Molly.

"Yes—there, you see, you know it already, so you need not have asked
me."

"Do you think mother would ever have done so to me if she had lived?"
asked little Molly, with tears in her eyes.

"Oh yes, I daresay," answered Kathleen carelessly; "only you know your
hair would never curl like mine."

"No; and besides I am so ugly, and my back is all crooked," sighed
Molly. "No, she could never have loved me as she loved you."

Apparently Kathleen was of the same opinion, for she did not attempt to
deny the statement. Having finished her dinner, she sprang up from her
chair and began to practise some dancing steps on the newly-scrubbed
floor, humming a lively air the while. The action jarred on Molly's
sorrowful mood. She wondered that Kathleen could dance and hum so gaily
on the day following that on which their father had been buried.


In the evening, when Kathleen got ready to go to the theatre, Molly
also put on her hat and cloak. During her father's illness she had
always walked with her sister to the theatre, and gone later to fetch
her home, and she meant to do so still.

But Kathleen raised an objection. "There's no need for you to come,
Molly," she exclaimed. "I am best alone. It's absurd for a little thing
like you to come out at night to keep me company."

"But father wished me to go," said Molly, "and I promised him I would
always take care of you."

"'You' take care of 'me!'" cried Kathleen, scornfully. "What a
ridiculous ideal! You forget I'm some years older than you. It's my
place to take care of 'you,' I rather think."

"I must go, Kathleen; I promised father," persisted Molly.

"Father never meant that you were to go always," declared Kathleen;
"and I don't mean to let you. It's not right for a little thing like
you to be out alone in the streets by night. There's no knowing what
might happen."

"No one will take any notice of me," urged Molly; "it's quite safe. I'm
not like you, Kathleen."

In spite of her strong wish to the contrary, Kathleen was forced to
give in, and let Molly have her way. Every evening the little girl
walked beside her sister to the theatre, then returned home to spend
some dreary hours in darkness and solitude, till the time came for
her to go back for Kathleen. Then she made her way rapidly along the
quietest streets to the theatre, and waited in some shadowed corner
till her sister appeared. Seldom did any one notice the child as she
slid along through the darkness or stood beneath a doorway, and such as
chanced to glance at her saw something in the look of the weird, wan
face and sad dark eyes, which deterred them from offering her annoyance.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

CHAPTER IV.

THE THEATRE AND THE MISSION HALL.

MOLLY was right in thinking that Ned Jones would prove a friend. He
was a strong, brave lad, having that tenderness for weaker creatures
which is a mark of true manhood. The courage with which little Molly
faced the trials of her lot and her devotion to her sister excited his
admiration, and made him desirous of befriending her. He had a pleasant
word for the little girl whenever they chanced to meet, and Molly was
very grateful for his kindness, for it was a rare thing for any one to
smile upon her.

One evening, happening to overtake Molly on her return from escorting
Kathleen to the theatre, Ned thought he would like to give her a treat.

"I suppose you've often been to the theatre, Molly?" he said.

"I've never been inside it, if that's what you mean," was her reply.

"What, have you never seen your sister perform? I should have thought
you would have gone to see her!"

"No, but I've often longed to go," said Molly; "for though Kathleen's
told me about it lots of times, I would far rather see for myself what
it's like. Father used to go to the theatre now and then, but he always
said he could not take me."

"I tell you what, Molly," exclaimed Ned; "I'll take you there to-night,
and you shall see for yourself just what it's like."

"You don't mean it!" cried Molly, her eyes sparkling with delight.
"You're only making game of me."

"No, indeed, I mean it," Ned assured her. "I'm flush of money just now,
and can stand you a treat. So come along, little 'un: there's no time
to lose, if we would get seats." And seizing her hand, he hurried her
along at a smart pace.

"Oh, how surprised Kathleen will be when she hears I've been there!"
cried Molly, breathlessly, as they went along. "Now I shall see her in
the beautiful dress she was trying to tell me about."

When they reached the theatre, they found a crowd gathered outside. And
as soon as the doors were opened, there was such a rush for the gallery
stairs that Molly might have been injured if Ned had not been there to
take care of her.

But his strong arm shielded her from the rough jostling. And when she
was safe up the narrow staircase, and seated in one of the front seats
of the gallery, her delight was unbounded. She gazed admiringly round
the large gaily-lit place. The lavish display of paint and tinsel, the
gorgeous curtain, the lively music, fairly enchanted her.

The atmosphere of the crowded gallery was hot and stifling, and
redolent of beer and tobacco, but the child was not aware of it. She
was too absorbed in seeing and hearing to pay heed to aught beside.

Ned directed her eyes to the well-dressed people who were entering the
stalls or taking possession of the boxes. Amongst them were little
girls of her own age, but oh! they looked so different from poor
little Molly. The child gazing down on them from the distant height
of the gallery wondered what it could feel like to wear such warm
bright cloaks and pretty dresses. It made her sad in the midst of her
enjoyment to look at these happy children, with their soft bright hair
and joyous faces, and to think of the vast difference between their
life and hers.

But this sadness vanished as at length, midst shouts and clapping, the
curtain slowly rose and revealed the glories beyond.

Molly forgot everything else as she watched the wonders of the play.
She could not understand what it all meant, but she was charmed with
the changing scenery and the brilliant dresses of the players. And when
presently there appeared on the stage a young gipsy-girl, fancifully
dressed, with a crimson kerchief twisted amidst her black locks, and
bracelets gleaming on her bare arms as she flourished a tambourine and
danced and sung, Molly failed to recognize her sister, till a whisper
from Ned told her who it was. Then she watched Kathleen's performance
with breathless interest.

At first she was pleased to hear the people clap and applaud. But
as the loudly-whispered remarks passing around reached her ear,
she blushed and wished it were not her sister upon whom they were
commenting so freely.

What right had they to couple such epithets with Kathleen's name, and
to speak as if she belonged to them? Molly resented their freedom
of speech, and it marred her enjoyment of the remainder of the
entertainment.

She was not sorry when it came to an end, and the people began to
disperse.

She hurried with Ned to the side door, where, after waiting awhile,
they were joined by Kathleen.

Kathleen was much surprised to learn that her little sister had been
seeing the play, but she did not show such pleasure as Molly had
expected.

"There, there, don't talk any more about it," she cried, cutting short
Molly's eager words. "I'm so tired of the noise and glare. Oh! Yes,
you think it very fine, I daresay, but if you'd seen as much of that
theatre as I have, you'd be sick to death of it."

"But oh! Kathleen, you looked so lovely when you came in and danced. I
did not know you at first," said Molly.

"That's a doubtful compliment," returned Kathleen, who, however, was
not ill-pleased with it.

"But, Kathleen, I did not like to hear the people shout and clap and
say such things about you."

"What did they say?" asked her sister, eagerly.

Then Molly repeated some of the comments which had reached her ears.
But the coarse admiration which she had resented was not distasteful
to Kathleen. She laughed, and said she was glad that she had pleased
the folks in the gallery, for they had sometimes a very objectionable
way of showing their disapproval of an actress. Her weariness seemed to
vanish, and she chatted merrily all the way home.

But her mood changed when they had bidden Ned "good-night," and gained
their attic.

"What a dreary place it is!" she said, as she entered the little room.
"No fire, no comfort of any kind. I wonder if any one seeing me dancing
and singing at the theatre could imagine that I live in such a hole as
this, and that I have not a friend in the world?"

Kathleen's words made Molly very unhappy. She said nothing in
reply, for she knew it would be of no use to remind Kathleen of her
love—that was of small value. She wished she knew the Friend of whom
the street-preacher had spoken, that she might ask Him to be good to
Kathleen. Long after Kathleen had forgotten her annoyance in sound
slumber, Molly lay sleepless by her side, pondering what means she
could take to discover who this mighty Friend was, and how she might
get near Him and speak to Him.

At last, she resolved that on the following Sunday evening, she would
go into the streets and look about for the preacher, in the hope of
hearing him again, and learning from his words more about the Son of
man.


But she had not to wait till Sunday to hear about the Son of man. On
the following evening, as she was coming alone from the theatre, she
turned into a different street from the one she usually took, and found
herself close to a new-looking building, about which a crowd of persons
had gathered.

Curious to see what was going on, Molly quickly crossed the road, and
made her way into the midst of the crowd.

The door of the building stood open, and revealed a long room,
furnished with deal benches and brightly lighted by gas.

Coloured pictures could be seen hanging on the whitewashed walls, and
gay banners waved over the door, giving the place a bright, cheerful
look. A policeman stood on the pavement, keeping order amongst the
crowd, and seeing that they stood back, so as to leave space for any
who wished to pass into the room.

But at first very few ventured in, though many of the rough lads and
slatternly girls whom curiosity had brought to the spot peeped in at
the door.

"What's going on in that room?" Molly asked of a woman who stood near
her.

"Why, bless you, that's the new mission hall!" was the response. "It's
opened to-night for the first time, and there's a grand parson coming
to preach."

"Who's he going to preach to?" asked Molly, wonderingly.

"Who to? Why, the people, of course: any who like to go and hear him."

"Do you mean that any one can go in? May I go?" inquired the child,
with eagerness.

"Yes, of course, if you've a mind to. Don't know but what I shall go in
myself, just to see what it's like, you know."

Molly's mind was quickly made up. The brightly lit room with such
pretty pictures on the walls was far more attractive than the dark
attic to which she was returning.

She walked to the door, and after a moment's hesitation stepped inside.

There were two or three ladies standing at the top of the room, and one
of these ladies came to meet the child, and took her to a seat, and
gave her a hymn-book. Molly sat down and took a good look around her.
She was delighted with the pictures.

There was one hanging on the wall facing her, from which she could
hardly take off her eyes. It represented a shepherd descending the
slope of a mountain, with a little lamb clasped in his arms. The path
along which he came was steep and rugged, and the hills lying behind
him were dark with storm-clouds; but the shepherd had sought and found
the little wanderer, and was carrying it safely to the fold. Tender and
sweet was the look on His face, as He sheltered the weary lamb in His
strong arms. There was love and pity in His glance, but no reproach nor
blame. Beneath the picture were these words printed,—

   "The Son of man is come to seek and to save that which was lost."

"Ah," said Molly to herself as she read the words, "those are the
very words I heard the man say in the street, and which I repeated to
father. Then that must be a picture of the Son of man. I'm so glad to
see it, for now I know what He is like. How good and kind He looks! I'm
sure I should not be afraid to speak to Him, and ask Him to take care
of me and Kathleen."

Here Molly's thoughts were diverted by the voice of the minister, who
began the service by giving out a hymn. Molly looked at him earnestly.
She liked the gentle, loving look, which his countenance wore, and the
tones of his voice sounded pleasantly in her ears. She looked away from
him to the picture, and then again at him, and fancied his face showed
a marked resemblance to that of the Shepherd.

Could it be that He was the Son of man?

For a few minutes, Molly's heart beat fast with the hope that it was
so. But as the service went on, there dawned on her mind a true idea of
who the Son of man was.

At first, there was but a small congregation in the hall. But the sound
of the singing attracted the loiterers outside, and one after another
entered, so that by the time the minister began his address, the hall
was quite full.

He took for his text the words,—

   "We love Him because He first loved us."

In clear, ringing tones he began to speak, and soon there was perfect
silence in the hall, as simply yet forcibly, he told the old, old
story of the Saviour's love. Step by step, he traced the course of the
wondrous life that began in the cradle at Bethlehem, and ended on the
cross at Calvary. Then he showed how that which seemed to be an ending
was in truth but a beginning, for death had no power over the Son of
God. He had loosed the bands of the grave and risen victorious over
death, and still lived to save and to bless, now as in the days of old,
the Saviour, Friend, and Brother of mankind.

As the preacher thus spoke, many hearts were thrilled by his words.

Some there were before him who had heard the truth in early life,
learned it, may be, at the knee of a mother, who had long since passed
from earth. And now, as the memories of childhood revived, they
wept for the sin which had stained their lives since those days of
innocence. Some, like little Molly, were getting their first distinct
impression of the Gospel, and the tidings of such a Saviour and Friend
fell on their ears with strange sweetness.

The preacher's concluding words Molly could never forget: they seemed
so suited to her own case.

   "Perhaps there is some one here to-night," he said, "who is sad and
lonely, some one who feels that he has no one to love him—no, not a
single human friend on whom to lean for comfort and help.

   "Surely that one will be glad to hear of the Divine Friend who loved
us so much that He gave His life for us. 'Greater love hath no man
than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.' Yet was the
Saviour's love greater, for whilst we were yet sinners—enemies—Christ
died for us.

   "Oh! Lonely one, whoever you are, come to this Friend. Do not be afraid
to come, however poor, or miserable, or sinful you may be. Jesus Christ
knows all about your sin and misery; yet He loves you in spite of all.
He knows the circumstances of your life; yes, every little detail:
nothing is hidden from His eyes, and He has help and healing for you.
He will bestow pardon, peace, and purity on all who trust Him. Come,
then, without fear. Bring to Him your sins, your sorrows, your daily
cares and anxieties. Speak to Him freely: He will hear you, for though
you see Him not, He is ever near you, ever waiting to listen to your
prayer.

   "Oh! Can you hold back, can you distrust His love after the mighty
proof of its reality He has given? Will you not love Him who first
loved you? Why should you live a lonely, friendless life, when there is
such a Friend waiting to help you, waiting to take you by the hand, and
lead you safely through the snares and dangers of this world, and to
bring you at last to His presence in the better, world beyond?"

This was glad news for little Molly. With a child's simple confidence,
she received the truth, and the thought of having such a Friend ever
near to aid and bless filled her heart with joy. She need nevermore
feel sad because no one loved her. Poor, ugly, deformed little creature
that she was, she had a Friend in the Son of man who had died for her.

"To think He's been loving me all this while, and I never knew it," she
said to herself as she stood up and in her shrill little voice joined
in singing the hymn, "'Tell me the old, old story.'"

As soon as the service was over, Molly slipped out of the hall, and ran
home, to think over in solitude the wonderful news she had heard.

The dark attic was not now a dreary place. The unseen Friend was there,
and she no longer felt lonely. She spoke to Him in simple childish
words.

   "Oh! Good Son of man," she said, "I'm a poor little girl, and I've no
one but Kathleen, and father said I was to take care of her, but I
can't do it properly, 'cause I'm not big enough. Oh! Please, Lord, be
our Friend, and take care of us, and teach us to love Thee!"

Many times did she repeat such words as these; and as she prayed, her
heart grew light and happy. She felt so sure that the Lord Jesus would
be her Friend, and take care of her and Kathleen.

"Oh! How I wish father had known about the Son of man," she thought;
"for then he would not have been afraid to leave Kathleen alone. He
would not have asked me to take care of her, if he had known that the
Lord Jesus would be our Friend."

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER V.

MOLLY GAINS A TREASURE.

IF Kathleen had looked closely at her sister, when she found her that
night waiting as usual at the door of the theatre, she would have
noticed that her face wore a singularly happy expression. But Kathleen
was not wont to pay heed to Molly's looks. She was too much taken up
with herself to care for her sister.

"Molly is a good little creature in her way," Kathleen thought. But she
was so very different from herself that she believed she was justified
in treating her with some contempt.

Kathleen was less likely than usual to notice Molly's looks this night,
since she was not alone when she came out of the theatre. She half
hoped that for once she might not find Molly awaiting her, for she was
ashamed that her companion should see her little sister.

As her eye fell upon the tiny hunched-up figure standing by the
doorway, she actually felt cross with Molly for her deformity.

"So you are here again, Molly," she cried; "you must be more fond of
the cold than I am to like to stand about on such a night as this."

Molly had certainly not enjoyed lingering in that bitter atmosphere.

The light mantle she wore was of far thinner texture than the shawl
in which Kathleen was closely wrapped, and her garments were all more
threadbare than those of her sister. Her father had bought clothes for
Kathleen as often as she required them, and he could spare the money,
but he had rarely thought it necessary to make any addition to Molly's
scanty habiliments. And now he was gone, and Kathleen's money had to
meet every need, there was small chance of Molly's getting any new
clothing.

Kathleen's remark was therefore an unfeeling one to make to her sister
as she stood trembling with cold in the keen night air.

But Molly forgot her words almost as soon as they were uttered. She was
gazing in surprise at the stranger who had hold of Kathleen's arm. He
was a tall, dark man, several years older than Kathleen. His features
would have been handsome, were it not for the bold, bad look stamped
upon them. He was well, though flashily dressed, wearing his hat
jauntily poised at the side of his head, and flourishing a cane in his
hand.

At the first glance, Molly distrusted and feared this man, and his
words were not calculated to produce a more favourable impression.

"So this is the little sister you were talking about," he said, looking
quizzingly at Molly. "Why, what a queer little object she is! She's not
a bit like you."

"Oh no," said Kathleen, "we're not at all alike. She always will come
to walk home with me. It is very silly of her, a little puny thing, to
fancy that she can protect me."

The man laughed loudly at the novel idea, and then Molly heard him say,
in an undertone, "Tell her not to come again. I'll walk home with you
in future."

"It's no good telling her," Kathleen replied; "she won't keep away for
my telling. Now come on, Molly; don't stand staring like that!"

Again the man laughed, and then whispered something that Molly could
not catch. The child felt very uncomfortable as she walked home,
keeping as close to her sister as she could. The strange man went all
the way with them, and talked fast to Kathleen, though in tones too low
for Molly to hear what was said.

Kathleen laughed and blushed, and seemed very excited. Molly thought
she had never seen her sister look more lovely—there was such a
beautiful colour in her cheeks, and her eyes sparkled so. But to-night
Molly could take no pleasure in her sister's beauty.

Somehow, she could have wished Kathleen were not so pretty, when she
saw how the stranger looked at her.

"Who is that man, Kathleen?" she asked, when they reached home, and at
last, after a prolonged farewell, he had left them at the door.

"He is Mr. Vavasour, one of the actors at the theatre," replied her
sister. "I like him so much; he's so kind to me! He says I'm one of the
best dancers he has ever seen, and he thinks that if I study and take
pains, I shall be a grand actress some day."

"He's a horrid-looking man!" said Molly, decidedly.

"Horrid-looking, you little silly?" returned Kathleen. "Why, he's very
handsome, and quite a gentleman, I can tell you. They think a deal of
him at the theatre, and his acting's splendid. I feel proud that he has
promised to be my friend."

"I don't call him a gentleman," said Molly, mentally contrasting his
appearance with that of the minister she had heard preach that night.
"And I can tell you of a far better friend than he is likely to be."

"Don't talk like a simpleton!" retorted Kathleen. "What can you know
about gentlemen, I wonder?"

Upon that, Molly began to tell her evening's experiences. But she had
not said much about the meeting ere Kathleen impatiently interrupted
her.

"There, that will do, Molly! I don't want to hear any more about the
preaching. I've heard that sort of thing before now!"

"But, Kathleen, I want to tell you about the Lord Jesus, who will be
our Friend," urged Molly.

"I don't want to hear!" retorted Kathleen. "I know already! I heard
something about it years ago, when I once went to Sunday-school."

"Oh! Kathleen!" exclaimed Molly, reproachfully. "Do you mean to say
you've known about the Lord Jesus all this while, and never told me?"

"I did not know you would care to hear," said Kathleen. "However,
there's a book of mother's somewhere, in which you can read it all for
yourself."

"Oh! Where?" cried Molly, eagerly. "Do show it me. I should so like to
read it."

"I can't find it now," said her sister; "I'm tired, and want to go to
bed, so stop talking, Molly, and get me some supper."

Molly did as she was bid. She was disappointed at the manner in which
Kathleen had received her account of the meeting at the mission hall,
and greatly surprised to find that the glad tidings she had received
with joy were already known to her sister.

"Kathleen," she ventured to whisper, when they were lying down together
in the darkness, "haven't you loved the Lord Jesus ever since you knew
that He died for us?"

But Kathleen made no reply, and Molly wondered to think how quickly she
had fallen asleep.


The next morning, when the two children had finished their breakfast of
dry bread and weak coffee, and Molly had washed the cups and plates and
tidied the room, she said to her sister, "Kathleen, will you find me
the book you spoke of last night?"

"What book?" asked Kathleen.

"Oh, you know, that book of mother's that tells about the Lord Jesus."

"Oh! I can't find it now," returned Kathleen. "I must finish learning
my new part before I go to rehearsal."

"Where is it?" asked Molly. "Can't I find it for myself?"

"Oh dear, Molly, what a tiresome little thing you are! As if you could
not wait a while."

"I don't want to be troublesome," said Molly, humbly, "but I thought I
should like to read whilst you were gone."

"Well, I think it's in that box under the bed," said Kathleen. "You can
look for it if you like; only be careful how you turn over the things."

In a moment, Molly dived under the bed and dragged out the box. Its
lock was gone, and it was kept closed by means of a cord tied tightly
round it. Very quickly the little fingers unfastened the knot and threw
back the lid.

The box contained nothing of value, only a few relics of the life of
past years.

At the top lay the clothes her father had worn, the old greatcoat and
shabby hat which he had put on for the last time on the evening when he
made a vain attempt to go to the theatre to fetch Kathleen home. Tears
came to Molly's eyes as she lifted the garments tenderly and laid them
on one side. Below were things which had belonged to her mother—an old
straw bonnet, a torn apron, a pair of well-worn slippers, some tiny
frocks which Kathleen had once worn and then handed on to her sister,
pretty little frocks bearing witness to the love and industry of the
mother who had made them for her darling. And underneath them Molly
found the baby clothes which she herself had worn, also the work of her
mother's clever fingers.

"Mother made this for me," the child said to herself as she held up a
tiny garment. "Ah! If she had lived, I should not have been like this."

And she glanced with disgust at the ragged frock which she had not
skill to mend, and the holes which appeared in her boots.

Then with a sigh, she continued her search. There were some packets of
letters and several broken-backed novels lying at the bottom of the
trunk, and amongst them Molly found a small brown book, which a glance
at the title-page told her was the one she sought.

Eager to begin reading, she replaced the things in the box as speedily
as possible, and pushing it out of sight sat down to enjoy her book.

She opened it at the first page, but she could make nothing of the hard
names which there met her eyes. Turning over a few leaves, however,
she came to what she could understand, and read of some of Christ's
miracles of healing. Great was her wonder and delight as she read. Once
or twice she asked Kathleen to tell her a word, or explain something
she could not understand.

But Kathleen sat at a distance, with her fingers in her ears, intently
studying the play-book which lay on her knee, and would not listen to a
word her sister had to say.

So Molly had to make out the meaning for herself, and skipping the hard
passages, read only the simple narratives which she could not fail to
understand.

She felt that she had found a treasure in finding that little book.
After this, she used to study the Testament during her solitary hours,
whilst Kathleen was absent at the theatre. She loved to read of the
Saviour's miracles of love and mercy, and the page grew wet with her
tears as she read of the anguish in the garden, the shameful mocking
and scourging, the traitorous friend, and the death on the Cross.

It was all real to little Molly. She pictured the Saviour, looking
gentle and loving, like the Shepherd in the picture at the mission
hall, as He went amongst the poor and suffering to heal and to save.
She wished she could have been one of the children upon whom His hand
had been laid in blessing. Then she reminded herself that this same
Jesus still lived, and that He loved her and Kathleen.

Many a question puzzled her sharp little mind, and she longed for some
one to explain the book to her; but this truth she believed—Jesus lived
and Jesus loved her. Every day she asked the unseen Friend to take care
of her and her sister, and she believed that He heard her, and would
watch over them.


But ere many days had gone, a cloud passed over little Molly's faith.
At first it was a very small cloud raised by some words from Kathleen.

On Sunday evening Molly asked her sister if she would go with her to
the service at the mission hall. Kathleen was not much inclined to go,
but when Molly tried to persuade her, she consented, saying that though
she did not suppose it would be very lively, it might be better than
moping at home.

Molly was not a little pleased to gain Kathleen's company, and started
for the mission hall with a glad heart.

But disappointment awaited her there.

Kathleen, accustomed to the gaudiness and glitter of the theatre,
did not think much of the pictures which Molly admired so greatly.
She scarcely cared to glance at the picture of the Shepherd with the
found lamb, and was by no means charmed with the singing, as Molly had
expected she would be. To Molly's regret, the preacher was not the
one to whom she had before listened. He was a younger man, and his
countenance, though not ill-looking, bore little resemblance to that of
the Shepherd in the picture. Molly felt very disappointed at not seeing
the minister whom she liked so much, and the words of this preacher did
not interest her as the other's had done. She saw that Kathleen paid
little attention to what he said, but yawned and fidgeted, and seemed
glad when the service was over.

"How is it the minister who preached on Tuesday did not come to-night?"
Molly ventured to ask of the woman who took care of the hall.

"Because he's got better folk to preach to than any that come here,"
was the quick rejoinder. "Why, don't you know who he is? He's the Rev.
Dr. Templeton, who preaches in the large church at the corner of Albion
Square, where lots of rich and fashionable people go. This mission hall
is in connection with his church, and he just came on Tuesday night to
start it, that was all."

"Then won't he preach here again?" asked Molly.

"No, I don't suppose he will; he's got something better to do, you see."

"Come along, Molly; what do you want to stop in this place for?" cried
Kathleen, impatiently.

Molly drew a sigh as she followed her.

"Don't ask me to go there again," said Kathleen; "it's the dullest
affair I ever was at in my life."

"I wish you could have heard the minister who preached on Tuesday,"
said Molly; "you would have liked him. It has made me so happy to think
of the words he said about how Jesus loved us and died for us."

"It was very fine, I daresay," replied Kathleen, tossing her head, "but
I don't believe in that sort of thing."

"But it's all true, Kathleen; it's written in mother's book."

"Well, that does not make it true, you little silly," returned
Kathleen, contemptuously: "do you think that everything that's printed
in a book must be true? If so, you don't know much. Why the play-books
I have, and those novels I read sometimes, are all untrue, every word
of them. For my part, I don't believe there's any one who loves us. It
certainly does not look like it, when we are so poor and friendless."

Little Molly felt as though she had received a blow. Surely it could
not be as Kathleen said? It must be true that Jesus lived and loved her.

Her heart beat fast with fear lest her precious hope should prove
false. She could not answer her sister's words, nor shake off the doubt
they aroused. She did not take up her book when they got home, but sat
still, musing uneasily on what Kathleen had said.

When bedtime came, she whispered a prayer as she lay down to rest, but
she could not feel sure that it was heard, and her safe, happy feeling
was gone.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER VI.

DOUBT AND DISAPPOINTMENT.

MOLLY woke the next morning feeling heavy and sad. At first she
wondered what had brought such a weight upon her heart, but she quickly
recollected the words Kathleen had uttered on the previous night, and
the doubt which had afterwards troubled her mind.

But now, as she mused over Kathleen's words, after a night of
refreshing sleep, they lost their power to distress.

"It was silly of me to be cast down by what Kathleen said," she
thought, as she rose and began to dress; "what difference can it
make what she thinks? It's not likely that she knows better than the
minister. Besides, I'm not sure that she really meant what she said,
for she often says things only for the sake of being contrary. No, no,
I'll not believe but what my book is true. It must be true; no one
could make up such a story."

And as she began to get breakfast ready, whilst Kathleen still lingered
in bed, Molly sang softly the hymn she had heard at the mission hall,
"'Tell me the old, old story.'"

"I wish you wouldn't make that noise, Molly," grumbled Kathleen, in a
sleepy tone.

Molly hushed her song in a moment.

But later in the morning, when Kathleen had gone out, she sang it
lustily as she went about her work.

When she had finished tidying the room, she took her book and sat down
to read. There was not a shadow of doubt upon her mind as she read the
sacred story. And she was so absorbed in John's account of Christ's
healing the blind man that she failed to hear a tap at the door, and
was quite surprised when it suddenly opened, and Ned Jones looked in
upon her.

"Hulloo! Little maid!" he exclaimed. "I thought you must be out when
you did not reply to my knock. What book are you reading that makes
you so deaf?" And he walked to where the child sat and peeped over her
shoulder. His face changed when he saw what the book was.

"Oh! That's what you're reading, is it?" he said, in a tone of contempt.

"Do you know it? Have you read it?" Molly asked eagerly.

"Not likely! I know better. And, Molly, I should have thought you had
more sense than to muddle your head with that book!"

"It doesn't muddle my head, Ned. I like it, and so would you like it if
you read it."

"Oh, I daresay!" he returned, in a mocking tone.

"Yes, you would like it," asserted Molly. "You should go to the mission
hall and hear the preaching there. That 'd make you want to read this
book."

"No, thank you!" he laughed. "That sort of gammon won't do for me. I
know what their preaching is like, but I don't believe in it. It's very
fine talk, no doubt, but it's not true."

"Not true!" repeated Molly; and her little face took a look of fear.

"No!" continued Ned, in a tone of defiance. "I don't believe a word of
it's true. It's all very well for the rich swells to preach and pray
and build mission halls for the poor, but we know it's only a dodge
to keep us down, that they may trample on our rights, and do with us
just as they please. You should hear my uncle talk about it—he's such
a clever man my uncle is; there's no hoodwinking him. He belongs to
a club which meets once a week to discuss the wrongs of the working
classes, and how they should be set right. He took me to the club one
night; and I can tell you it was fine to hear him talk. Oh, he's such a
clever man!"

"Does your uncle say that this book is not true?" asked little Molly,
gazing at Ned with an anxious, wistful look in her dark eyes.

"Bless you, yes! He calls all religion cant and humbug. He says it's
very fine for the swells to talk about brotherly love and charity, and
so on. But they never show any brotherly love when they grind down the
poor man and let him go hungry and cold, whilst they never want for
anything. Oh, it's easy to see that their pretended goodness is all a
sham!"

"Oh! Ned, don't talk like that!" cried little Molly, in a tone of
distress. "I know my minister is true! I'm sure he's a good, kind man,
and cares for the poor!"

"Well, I daresay he's a good sort of fellow in his way. He does not
mind going amongst the poor to patronise them and to preach to them.
It's his business to do that. But you go to his fine church on Sunday,
Molly, and go in amongst the grand ladies and gentlemen who attend
there, and see what sort of a welcome you'll get."

"Oh! I wish you would not talk so!" said Molly, with tears in her eyes.
"You make me very unhappy! And I was so happy before in believing that
Jesus Christ would be our Friend, and take care of me and Kathleen! I
thought it would be so nice to go every Sunday to the mission hall, but
now you've spoilt all by what you've said."

Ned's face changed at her sorrowful words. The vain, self-confident
expression vanished, and he looked uneasy.

"I'm very sorry I have made you unhappy, little Molly," he said. "I
daresay religion is a good thing for women and little girls. Go on
believing it, if it makes you happy."

"But I can't, after all you've said," Molly exclaimed; "what good can
it do me to believe a thing that is not true? I don't want to believe
it, if it's not true."

Ned felt uncomfortable, and wished his words unsaid. He was silent for
a few minutes, then, forgetful of the errand on which he had come up
to the attic, he nodded good-bye to Molly and went slowly down-stairs,
feeling heartily ashamed of himself for having robbed a little child of
the faith which made her happy.

Left to herself, Molly sat down on the floor and had a good cry. It was
such a disappointment. She had a high opinion of Ned's wisdom, and Ned
had said that her book was not true.

Her happy faith that the Lord Jesus loved her and watched over her was
a mistake, and she was the victim of a delusion and a sham. Little
Molly's experience of the world made it easy for her to believe in
such deception, and she felt ashamed now to think how readily she had
suffered herself to be imposed upon. She might have known better. She
had heard her father speak often enough of clever hoaxes and fair words
spoken to deceive. Had he not told her that she was in a bad, cruel
world, where no one could be trusted, and there was no one to care for
her? And when, as he lay on his death-bed, she spoke to him of the Son
of man, had he not said that he wished he knew if it were true? Well,
she knew now that it was not true; it was only a story, nothing more.

Such were at first her thoughts. But presently hope re-asserted itself.
Was it quite certain that she was mistaken?

Why should Ned's word be more trustworthy than the minister's? Ned's
uncle, clever though he was, could not know everything.

She would not, she could not, cease to trust in the Lord Jesus; she
would go on believing, in spite of what Ned had said.

Thus little Molly wisely resolved, but the impression left on her
mind by Ned's words was not to be shaken off. Her faith was weak and
trembling after such a shock. She continued to go to the Sunday evening
services, but she did not enjoy them as before. Whilst the preacher
spoke of Jesus and His love, she seemed to hear Ned saying, "It's only
a dodge of the rich swells to keep us down and trample on our rights."
And her heart grew sick with doubt and perplexity.

How was she to find out the truth? Oh, how she wished she could again
hear the minister with the gentle, loving face, which had so won her
confidence that it was impossible to believe him anything but good and
kind, or to doubt the truth of what he said.


One Sunday morning, Molly went out alone for a stroll. She left
Kathleen in bed reading a novel. But the March day was too bright for
Molly to care to remain indoors. The sun shot down such warm rays as
might have deceived one into the belief that the reign of winter was
over, had not the keen east wind which swept round the corners of the
streets and drove the dust in clouds along the roads speedily destroyed
the illusion.

Molly looked a miserable little mortal as she walked aimlessly on,
keeping ever on the sunny side of the road. Her face had grown thinner
and sharper during the weeks which had passed since her father's death,
and the old careworn expression was even more marked than before. There
was a restless, troubled look in her eyes as they glanced quickly from
side to side, taking note of every object which came within their range.

Unconsciously, she had turned her steps in the direction of Albion
Square, and now she saw before her a handsome church, into which a
number of well-dressed persons were passing. At the same time, it
flashed on her mind that she had been told that her minister, as she
called him, preached in a church at the corner of Albion Square. The
thought quickened her steps. She ran across the road, and, taking a
position beside the church door, watched with curiosity, not unmixed
with envy, the grand-looking persons who entered the building. Amongst
them she saw many little girls, warmly and prettily clad, and looking
very happy as, led by parent or friend, they went into church.

"How nice it must be to wear such beautiful clothes!" said Molly to
herself. And then she looked at her own ragged frock and the holes in
her shoes, and felt the tattered brim of her hat. How different her
appearance from that of these little girls!

"If it's at all true about the Lord Jesus," thought Molly, "I guess
these are the little girls He loves. 'Taint likely He can care about
a poor, ragged, crooked child like me. I wish I could see the inside
of that church. I'd go in, but I expect they'd turn me away if I did.
I wonder if I could just creep inside the door for a minute and take
a peep round without being seen? I should so like to see my minister
again!"

[Illustration: MOLLY IN THE CHURCH PORCH.]

The temptation was not to be resisted. Screening herself behind a
portly old gentleman, Molly ascended the stately steps, and slipped
inside the church porch.

She stood for a few moments half behind the door, trying to keep out of
sight of the smart-looking pew-opener, whom she suspected would prove
her enemy.

But she forgot the need of caution when she saw her minister coming
in at the door. Yes, it was he; she was not mistaken. There was the
same kind face, wearing such a pleasant smile as he responded to the
greetings of the people about him. By his side walked a young lady,
beautifully dressed in rich velvet and fur. She was remarkably pretty,
but there was that in her bearing which seemed to indicate that she did
not underrate the impression her charms were calculated to produce.

Little Molly was struck with this young lady's appearance. She thought
she had never seen any one so lovely.

"She looks like an angel!" the child murmured to herself as she
gazed admiringly at the fair young girl with her golden hair and
delicate-featured face.

But, unfortunately, in her eagerness to examine more closely the young
lady's beautiful dress, Molly pressed too near, and her dusty boots
trod upon the flowing skirt. Alas! It was no angelic look which came to
the young lady's face at that moment, but a look of anger and intense
disgust, as she hastily drew her dress as far as possible from the
little ragged child. She said nothing, but her expression was eloquent
enough, and Molly shrunk back with a sudden painful sense of her
shabby, unlovely appearance. The child's sensitive heart had received a
deep wound, and that look of repulsion lingered in her memory for many
a day.

It was over in a moment. The young lady swept into the church, and the
minister passed to the vestry without seeing the forlorn child.

Molly stood still for a few minutes, too bewildered to move from the
spot.

She was conscious of many persons passing her, some of whom regarded
her with looks of surprise, as if wondering what business she had to be
there.

But no one looked with pity on the poor child, or spoke a kind word to
her.

"Now, then! What are you doing here?" said the pew-opener, roughly.
"This is not the place for you; you'd better be off!"

The words roused Molly. She needed no second bidding to be off, but
hurrying into the street, hastened in the direction of home.

But ere she had gone far, her steps flagged, and large tears dimmed her
sight.

"It's just as Ned said!" she mused, sorrowfully. "Those people don't
care anything about us. And I don't believe it's true about Jesus
Christ. I guess Ned's uncle is right, and it's all a make-believe.
I won't think any more about it, and I won't go to the mission hall
again!"

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER VII.

A STRANGE QUESTION.

MOLLY held to her resolution, and kept away from the mission hall.
Yet it was hard to do so. She would go to the door of the hall, and
lingering there, listen to the singing with tears in her eyes. But
when she felt drawn to go in, she thought of Ned's words, and said to
herself, "No, it's all a cheat, and I won't be taken in again."

Now, on a Sunday evening, Kathleen would persuade her to take a walk,
and they would wander idly through the streets, being joined, perhaps,
by some of Kathleen's associates of the theatre. Then there would be
much loud talking and foolish jesting, in which Molly had no heart
to join. But none of the girls took notice of her, save to ridicule
her odd appearance. At such times, Molly felt lonely indeed, but
remembering her promise to her father, she kept close to her sister's
side, and would not be driven away by her cold words or looks.

Molly was growing uneasy about Kathleen. She fancied that her sister
was making friends of such persons at the theatre as her father would
not have liked her to know. The strange man whom Molly instinctively
dreaded often walked home with Kathleen of a night. The more Molly
saw of him, the more she distrusted and feared him. It was of no
use, however, for her to beg Kathleen to have nothing to say to him.
Kathleen only laughed and said that he was her best friend, and quite a
gentleman, and she should certainly talk with him as much as she liked.

Molly felt weak and helpless. How could she take care of Kathleen? Oh,
if only it had been true about the unseen Friend!

As spring advanced, and the days grew warm, the position of the poor
lonely girls did not improve. It had from the first been difficult to
make the few shillings which Kathleen earned at the theatre suffice for
the week's needs. Molly was a clever little manager, but Kathleen would
not always entrust the money to her care. Sometimes she chose to spend
it as she liked, and would invest the money that would have paid the
rent in a gay ribbon or flower for herself. Then for days little Molly
had to pinch and save and do with insufficient food, in order to make
up for Kathleen's extravagance.

But now things grew even worse. As the winter season passed away,
Kathleen was not required at the theatre so often, and her earnings
were accordingly less. It was hard work to live on so little, and many
a night the girls lay down to sleep feeling hungry. One after another
articles taken from the box beneath their bed were carried to the
pawnshop. Molly could bear her own privations with patience, but it
grieved her to see her sister suffer want. Her heart ached sorely as
she listened to Kathleen's complaints, and saw that she was growing
pale and thin.

"If only Mr. Vavasour were here, he would help us, I know," Kathleen
cried one day. "But he's away acting at the country theatres, and won't
be back for ever so long."

"We can get along without his help," returned Molly, quickly. "I tell
you what, Kathleen, I've been wondering if there's not some way by
which 'I' can earn money."

"You earn money, indeed!" exclaimed Kathleen, scornfully. "What an
idea! I should like to know how you would do it."

"I can sweep and scrub and clean boots and knives," said little Molly.
"Perhaps some one might be willing to hire me for a few hours a day."

"Not very likely," was Kathleen's unkind retort. "The look of you would
be enough for most folks. Who would care to have a little crook-backed
thing like you for a servant?"

Molly was pained, and said no more, but she did not abandon her project.


After pondering over it for a while, she found courage to name it to
Mrs. Jones.

At first, Mrs. Jones was scarcely more encouraging than Kathleen, but
she promised to inquire amongst her acquaintances, and if she heard of
any one needing a girl's help, to mention Molly. She kept her word, and
to good purpose, for at the close of the week, she told Molly that she
had found a place for her. Her sister-in-law, who kept a boarding-house
in George Street, was in want of a girl who could come for a few
hours in the morning to clean boots and knives. On Mrs. Jones's
recommendation, she was willing to try Molly.

The child was delighted with this success, and felt quite rich when she
heard that she was to be paid two shillings a week for her work.

She went to her new employment on the following Monday with a brave
heart, determined, if possible, to give satisfaction. Cleaning boots
and knives, running errands, and toiling up and down steep flights of
stairs was hard work for the child. She often came home at noon, on the
hot summer days, feeling faint and sick, and looking sadly pale and
worn, but she never complained of weariness.

And Kathleen, pleased with the easier living which Molly's earnings
secured, did not doubt that her sister's strength was equal to the work
she undertook.

Molly saw little of the inmates of the boarding-house, for most of them
were away at the time she was there. Yet with one of the boarders, she
chanced to form an acquaintance. She was sent one morning with a pair
of boots to the room occupied by Madame Ganelli, a professional singer
residing in the house.

Molly tapped, as directed, at this lady's door, but the sound of her
gentle knock was lost in the flood of melody coming from the room.
Molly, who loved nothing better than to hear singing, stood still to
listen. Never before had she heard such music as this; the singing at
the mission hall was nothing compared with it. The child was as one
spell-bound, as the full, rich notes of an Italian melody, sung by a
fine and well-trained voice, fell on her ears.

The door before her was ajar, and moved by an irresistible longing to
see the singer who could pour forth such a strain, Molly pushed it a
little further open, and peeped into the room. The scone which met her
gaze was somewhat disappointing.

A more untidy room could hardly be. The bed was unmade, a tray bearing
remnants of breakfast stood on a side table, and various articles of
attire lay about the apartment just where the wearer had tossed them on
the previous night. Serene, in spite of the disorder around her, the
singer sat at a piano, littered with sheets of music. She was a woman
who had seen more than thirty years, and looked her full age at this
hour, as clad at her ease in dressing-gown and slippers, she practised
her singing.

Her face was thin and sallow, but it was not without beauty, and the
gentle, melancholy expression it wore at this moment attracted little
Molly.

The child knew she had no right to linger at the door, but it was hard
to turn away from such thrilling music.

While she stood hesitating, the Italian song came to an end. And after
a few moments, the powerful voice broke forth in a new strain. This
time the words were English, and such as startled Molly.

   "'I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that He shall stand at the latter
day upon the earth.'"

Molly's heart beat fast as she listened.

She could not be deceived as to the meaning of the words.

It must be Jesus Christ of whom the singer sang, for had she not heard
one of the preachers at the mission hall speak of Him as the Redeemer?
In her eagerness, she pressed closer to the open door.

Everything was forgotten save the thrilling song, "'I know that my
Redeemer liveth.'"

At first, the notes were low and uncertain, but the singer repeated
them again and again with growing power, till presently the words
swelled forth in a strain which seemed to breathe triumphant faith.

Little Molly could not doubt that the singer felt the significance
of the words she sang. The child's heart bounded with hope. Here,
then, was one who firmly believed in the Lord Jesus Christ. Oh! She
must speak to her; she must ask her how it was she was so sure that
the Redeemer lived? And without waiting to consider the wisdom of
her impulse, Molly made three steps into the room, and startled the
performer by exclaiming,—

"Please, lady, how is it you know that the Redeemer lives? Oh! I wish
you would tell me, for I do so want to be sure about the Lord Jesus!"

With a start of amazement, the lady turned, and looked with astonished
eyes on the strange little mortal addressing her. "Who are you, child?"
she exclaimed. "And what did you say to me?"

"I'm Molly, please, ma'am," replied the child, trembling as she became
conscious of the boldness of her action. "Molly Macardie, what cleans
the boots and knives. I came to bring you your boots, and I heard you
singing, and I wanted to ask you how you know that the Redeemer lives,
for I do so want to be certain that the Lord Jesus lives and loves us."

The lady made no reply. Her face grew very red, and she turned round
quickly to the piano.

Molly thought the lady must be angry with her for her unceremonious
entrance.

"Please, ma'am," she said humbly, "I know I ought not to have come into
your room so sudden-like, without knocking. I promise you I'll never do
it again if only you'll tell me about the Lord Jesus."

The lady turned round again, and once more surveyed the little deformed
child. But she could scarcely bear to meet the earnest gaze of Molly's
wistful dark eyes; they seemed to read her very soul.

"You have come to the wrong person, child," she said, speaking not
unkindly; "I know little of the One you name."

"But you were singing about Him," urged little Molly. "'I know that my
Redeemer liveth'—I heard the words as plain as could be."

"I dare say you did," returned the singer, "but I don't often think of
the meaning of the words I sing; and this sort of music is not much in
my line. I am only practising it to-day, because I've promised to take
part in a concert to-morrow, in place of a friend of mine, who is ill."

Molly gazed at her with a face expressive of the deepest disappointment.

"Come, child, don't look so sorry," said the lady, touched with pity;
"have you no father nor mother, who can teach you what you want to
know?"

"Father and mother are both dead," replied Molly; "I've no one but
Kathleen to teach me anything, and Kathleen says she don't believe it's
true about the Lord Jesus."

"And who is Kathleen?" asked the lady.

"Kathleen's my sister," said Molly, proudly. "But you mustn't think
she's like me," she made haste to add. "She's as different as can be.
Kathleen is tall and straight, and her face is so pretty. No one would
take us for sisters."

"Is she older than you?"

"Oh yes; she is fifteen, and acts at a theatre. I saw her acting
once, and I can tell you it was grand. But although I'm younger than
Kathleen, father told me that I was to take care of her. I always go to
the theatre every night to bring her home, because father did not like
her to walk through the streets alone."

"Poor girl!" sighed the singer, involuntarily. "Has she no one but you
to protect her? And you say that she is pretty, too. Ah! Poor girl!"

"No, there's no one but me to take care of her," replied Molly; "and
I'm such a poor little thing. That's why I was glad to hear at the
mission hall about the Lord Jesus. I thought He would be our Friend,
and watch over us. But Ned Jones says it's not true about Him, only
a make-believe. So now I don't go to the mission hall, for I don't
want to hear about Him, if it's not true. I thought you'd be able to
tell me, ma'am, when I heard you sing. But I must go now. I'm sorry I
disturbed you."

And with a sigh, Molly turned to the door.

"Stay, little girl," cried the lady, suddenly, "come here and listen to
what I have to say. I can't tell you much about these things, for I'm
not at all good myself, but I do know one thing. I know that it 'is'
true about the Lord Jesus."

"Oh, is it really? Please tell me how you know!" cried Molly, eagerly.

"I know it, Molly, because I had a good father," said the lady, and her
voice quivered as she spoke; "and my father loved and served the Lord
Jesus. Oh, when I remember my father's holy life, I 'know' that it's
all true!"

"But don't you love the Lord, too?" asked Molly, with a look of wonder
on her face.

"You wouldn't ask that, child, if you knew how wicked I am," replied
the singer, rising suddenly from the piano and walking to the other
side of the room. "I'm so bad that I scarcely dared to take those
sacred words into my lips. Often have I tried to persuade myself that
the Bible was not true—that there was no God, and no hereafter. I
should have been glad to deny it all. But it was of no use. I could not
help believing. Something within my heart always said that it was true."

There were tears in her eyes as she spoke, but she would not give way
to emotion. Dashing away her tears, and turning again to the child,
she said, brusquely: "You must go now, child. I've no more time for
talking. I advise you to go again to the mission hall, and hear what
the minister says, for it's all true, depend upon it."

Molly's face brightened at these words. She stepped to the door, but
paused with her hand on the latch. The child felt drawn to this lady,
who had spoken to her so kindly. She had seen the tears in her eyes,
and she longed to comfort her.

"What will 'you' do, ma'am?" she asked, timidly. "Don't 'you' want to
go to the mission hall, and hear about the Lord Jesus?"

The warm colour came back to the lady's face, but she responded
quickly: "No, child, no: my day for that sort of thing has gone by. Now
run away. You may come and see me again some day, but I cannot talk to
you longer now."

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER VIII.

MOLLY HAS A TALK WITH HER MINISTER.

THE singer's advice was not thrown away upon Molly, for that very
evening she went to the mission hall. Special services were being
held there every night of this week. Molly had longed to go to these
services, but the recollection of Ned's words, and the resolution she
had formed on that Sunday morning when sorely wounded in spirit she had
turned away from the grand church in Albion Square, had sufficed to
keep her away.

Now, however, she went with a hopeful heart. Not that she could at once
cast away her doubts. Her nature differed from that of most children.
The mind which dwelt in that tiny, stunted form was far too old for its
years, and this anxious, questioning mind was not to be satisfied with
a mere word.

Yet it was a great thing to have heard a grown-up woman declare so
positively that it was true that the Saviour lived, even whilst it
appeared that she did not love the Lord of whose existence she was
certain. The singer's declaration was a powerful antidote to those
words of Ned, which had so shaken Molly's mind.

So Molly went to the mission hall, prepared to pay earnest heed to the
words that were spoken there. Great was her joy when she perceived
that the preacher this night was none other than "her" minister. Again
she looked upon his pleasant face, and traced its resemblance to that
of the Good Shepherd in the picture, and again she listened with rapt
attention to his thrilling words, as he told the old, old story of the
Saviour's love.

The weather all day had been close and sultry, and in the narrow
streets and crowded homes of the neighbourhood the heat was well-nigh
stifling. As evening fell, a tempest broke over the city, and the
preacher's concluding words were lost in a crash of thunder.

The hall had grown dark in the gathering gloom, but now it was fitfully
illuminated by the lightning's gleams. Awe and terror fell upon the
assembled people.

They looked at one another in consternation. Some women screamed, and
those whose homes were nearest, hastened from the hall. The minister
tried to calm their fears by a few assuring words, and then with a
brief prayer brought the service to an end.

There followed a scene of confusion. For a time the storm was so severe
that few ventured to quit the hall. The minister left his desk, and
coming into the midst of the frightened people talked cheeringly to
them.

Molly crept near to him, and looked up in his face. She had no fear of
the storm. It pleased her to listen to the mighty roar of the thunder,
and to have her eyes dazzled by the fiery lightning. She was glad of
this opportunity of looking more closely upon her minister, and hearing
more words from his lips. She would have liked to speak to him, but was
too shy to make any effort to attract his notice.

Whilst she waited, the fury of the storm gradually abated, and in spite
of the torrents of rain which fell, the congregation soon dispersed.
Molly went to the door, but there she lingered. It was not fear of the
rain which kept her there. She was too used to getting wet through as
she went about the streets to think much of that.

She stood on the step with the droppings from the roof falling upon
her, and tried to gather courage to speak to the minister as he came
out. He looked so kind and good, she need not fear to address him, she
thought.

Peeping round the door-post, Molly watched him as he stood saying a few
words to the woman who took care of the hall. Her heart beat fast as
she heard him bid the woman good-night, and saw him coming towards the
door; but desire made her bold.

The minister was looking so intently at the clouds that he did not
observe the little figure standing on the step. Umbrella in hand, he
was debating whether he should venture into the rain or wait till the
shower was over, when he was surprised by the touch of a cold little
hand, and a shrill voice, trembling with eagerness, said:

"Please, sir, how do you know that it's all real true?"

He turned and saw by his side a tiny child, clad in thin and ragged
garments. His heart was touched with pity as he noted the weak,
deformed little body, and met the earnest gaze of Molly's sad, dark
eyes, looking unnaturally large and brilliant, in contrast to the wee,
wasted face in which they were set.

"Who are you, my child?" he asked gently. "And what do you want with
me?"

"I'm Molly Macardie," she answered simply, "and I want to know if it's
all real true about Jesus Christ, and if He does really love us and
care for us, as you say."

"All real true about Jesus Christ!" repeated the minister, wonderingly.
"Assuredly it is, my child. Who has been telling you otherwise?"

"Ned Jones says it's nothing but a make-believe," asserted Molly; "and
Kathleen, my sister, says she don't believe there's any one loves us,
as you say Jesus does. I was so sorry to hear them say such things,
because I liked to think about Jesus, and to come here and hear about
Him."

"I see," said the minister kindly, as he drew her inside the hall; "so
you want me to tell you how I know it to be true about the Lord Jesus?"

"Yes, that's it, sir," said Molly, eagerly; "I knew you could tell
me, and you looked so kind and good, just like the Son of man in the
picture, that I thought I wouldn't be afraid to ask you."

"Not like the Son of man, child," returned the minister, with a sigh,
as his eyes followed the direction of hers, and rested on the picture
of the Good Shepherd. "I'm far from being that. But now tell me more
about yourself, Molly, that I may know how I can best help you. Who is
this Ned Jones?"

And sitting down, and giving the child a seat near him, he drew from
her the story of her strange little life. Molly's shyness vanished
before his kind manner, and she told him freely all about herself. She
talked to him of the lovely sister whose sole guardian she was, and of
the father who on his death-bed had begged her to take care of that
sister.

Tears dimmed the minister's eyes as he listened to her artless words.
And when he spoke, his voice was full of pity. "And have you no one
to take care of you, my poor child; not a single friend to show you
kindness?"

"Mrs. Jones is kind in her way," said Molly, "but Kathleen says we must
not trust too much to her, for she'd turn us away to-morrow if we could
not pay the rent. We've no one else to look after us. That is why I was
so glad to hear that the Lord Jesus would be our Friend, and watch over
us."

"And He will be; He is your Friend," said the minister, solemnly. "He
does watch over you. Do not doubt it, little Molly."

The child's face brightened, but there was still a questioning look in
her eyes.

"You want me to tell you how I know that it is so," said the minister,
anticipating her question. "Well, the best proof I can give you is that
drawn from my own experience. I know that Jesus lives, because I have
found Him my Friend and Saviour. You see that picture, Molly, of the
Shepherd with the lamb in His arms?"

"Yes," said Molly, as her eyes sought it.

"That lamb had wandered from the fold. It was lost on the dark
mountains amidst slippery slopes and dangerous precipices, and must
have perished, had not the Shepherd gone forth into the darkness to
seek it, and never rested till He had it in His arms. Molly, I was once
lost like that lamb."

"You?" repeated Molly, in amazement. "You lost like that lamb?"

"Yes," said the minister slowly; "when I was young, I went astray like
a lost sheep. I wandered far, far from God. I was lost in the darkness,
living without God and without hope in the world. But the Good Shepherd
would not leave me thus. He sought me and brought me home. I found in
Jesus a Saviour and a Friend, and His love has never failed me yet.
I have been too ready to leave His side, but He has never forsaken
me—never. So now, Molly, knowing what a friend Jesus has been to me, I
am not afraid to tell you to trust Him."

"But are you sure He will be my Friend?" asked the child, anxiously. "I
daresay He loves you, and the pretty, smart little girls, but I don't
see that He can care for an ugly, crooked little thing like me."

The minister smiled sadly as he replied: "He does love you, Molly.
There is no respect of persons with Him. Tell me, my child, do you
think that your mother, if she had lived, would have loved you the less
on account of your weakness?"

"Why, yes," replied Molly, promptly; "of course I do. It ain't possible
that she could have loved me as she loved Kathleen."

"Ah! Child, you do not know a mother's heart," said the minister. "A
true mother bestows her tenderest love and care on her most feeble
child. I believe, Molly, that your weakness would have secured you the
first place in your mother's heart. But I am sure of this—that the Lord
Jesus only loves you the more because you are lonely and weak.

   "'He gathers the lambs in His arms, and carries them in His bosom.'"

"Oh, I am so glad!" cried Molly, clasping her hands in delight. "I'm so
glad that Jesus loves me! I'm so glad that you say it's all real true.
I won't mind anything that Ned Jones says again!"

"Yes, yes, it's all true," said the minister; "and the Lord Himself
will teach you so, if you let Him. You cannot be sure of His love
unless you come to Him and give Him the trust of your heart. The
Shepherd could not save the lamb if it persisted in keeping away from
Him, and no one can know the Lord by merely looking at Him from a
distance, or judging Him by those who call themselves His friends. You
must pray to Him, little Molly, and look to Him every day for guidance
and strength, and He will help you and bless you!"

"I 'will' pray to Him," said Molly. "I will ask Him every day to take
care of me and Kathleen, and to make us good!"

"I will tell you a little prayer you may use if ever again you feel
inclined to doubt the Lord's goodness because of anything others may
say to you. It was uttered by one who came to Jesus when He was on
earth—a poor man who longed to believe, yet could not as he would.

   "'Lord, I believe; help Thou my unbelief,'

"he said; and the Lord heard his cry and had mercy on him. Can you
remember the words?"

"'Lord, I believe; help Thou my unbelief,'" repeated Molly.

"Make that your prayer, my dear child, if ever again you find it hard
to believe that it's all true about the Lord Jesus. And now you must
run home, for it is getting late—too late for a child like you to be in
the streets. Tell me where you live, and I will come and see you and
your sister."

Molly readily described the street in which she lived, then, bidding
the minister good-night, she hastened away with a light heart, not
turning homewards, as he supposed, but taking her way through the wet
streets to the theatre, where she would meet her sister.

The minister watched her with a look of pity as she ran through the
rain, to which her thin garments could offer but slight resistance.

He had a little daughter at home of the same age as Molly, and the
thought of his bright-eyed, rosy-checked Nelly made his heart very
tender towards this poor desolate child.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER IX.

THE REST OF FAITH.

LITTLE MOLLY was a happier child after she had had that talk with the
minister. Not that her life was any easier.

She had still to work so hard that her little bones ached so much that
sometimes she could scarcely sleep at night for the pain. She had still
to bear fretful words and bursts of temper from Kathleen, who reserved
her bright looks and pleasant words for her companions at the theatre,
and seldom spoke kindly to Molly.

But Molly knew now that Jesus loved her. Every day and many times in
the day she prayed to the Saviour, and she was sure that He heard her.
She began to read her Testament once more with renewed delight. The
Holy Spirit taught her the meaning of what she read, and gave her such
a sense of the grace and love of the Lord Jesus as filled her young
soul with a light which no shadow of doubt could dispel.

"You and your uncle, clever though he is, are both wrong in saying this
book is not true," she said to Ned Jones, one day. "I have had a talk
with the minister, and he has made me know that it is true. I am sure
now that the Lord Jesus loves me and Kathleen, and will take care of
us. And oh! It makes me so happy!"

And Ned Jones, as he saw the glad light which shone in the child's
eyes, had not a word to say in reply. His faith in his uncle's wisdom
was shaken. Might not little Molly be right, after all?

There came to his mind some words he had heard, he knew not where; they
were these:

   "Thou hast hid these things from the wise and prudent, and hast
revealed them unto babes."

Ned was resolved he would never breathe another word of doubt to little
Molly.

The minister's promise to visit her was not forgotten by Molly. Day by
day she looked for his coming, and every spare moment was devoted to
making the tiny attic look as clean as possible for his reception.

Kathleen laughed to see how Molly scrubbed and polished, yet even
Kathleen was excited at the prospect of the gentleman's visit. It was
such a new thing for any one to take an interest in them. Molly's great
fear was lest the minister should come when she was away from home.
Every day, when she returned from her morning's toil, she questioned
Mrs. Jones as to whether a gentleman had been there.

But Mrs. Jones constantly returned the same answer. And as day after
day went by and the minister did not come, Molly began to fear
disappointment.

The fear deepened as days grew into weeks, and weeks into months, and
yet he did not come. And as the hope of his coming died out of Molly's
heart, her disappointment was keen.

"I don't believe he ever meant to come," said Kathleen, contemptuously.

But Molly could not believe this, though her heart was very sore at his
non-fulfilment of his promise.


It was a pity she could not know why he had failed to come. When the
minister reached his home that evening, after parting with little Molly
at the mission hall, he found trouble awaiting him there. His little
Nelly had suddenly been taken ill. There was a physician in attendance,
whose grave demeanour bespoke the presence of danger. Hours passed on,
and the child grew no better.

The drear words, "No hope!" were spoken. And after lingering in
suffering for two or three days, the young spirit passed to the home
above.

No wonder that in days of such anxiety and sorrow, Molly should be
forgotten.

When at length the minister thought of her, he could not remember the
name of the street in which the child had said she lived.

There was no time then to seek her. The summer season had worn to its
close, and all well-to-do people were hastening to escape from the dust
and glare of London to the bracing breezes which blow by the sea-shore.

It was desirable that he should, without delay, take his sorrowing wife
and children to seek the soothing influences of fresh air and change
of scene. So, reluctantly, the minister was forced to postpone his
promised visit to little Molly. And, commending her to the care of the
Good Shepherd, he went away.


Molly's friend, Madame Ganelli, was also out of town at this time, and
many weeks passed ere she again saw her. Then one day, soon after her
return to London, the singer called Molly to her room, and showed her
a discarded dress, which she intended to convert into a frock for the
child.

Molly was not a little delighted at the prospect of having a new frock
in place of the shabby one she wore, and she thanked the lady heartily
for her kindness.

Their talk was all about the dress, till just as Molly was going away,
the lady said, "Well, how about the mission hall? Have you been there
again?"

"Oh yes!" cried Molly, her face lighting up. "Oh yes and I spoke to
the minister, and he was so kind. I am quite, quite sure now that it's
all real true about the Lord Jesus. He loves me and Kathleen, and you,
ma'am, and everybody!"

"Does He love me, Molly?" said the lady in a low tone, turning away her
face as she spoke. "I'm not so sure of that."

"But it's true—real true!" declared Molly. "Do you think your mother
loved you, ma'am?" she asked, after a moment's silence.

Madame Ganelli started at the question.

"Do I think my mother loved me?" she repeated, in a tone which vibrated
with quick emotion. "Ay, that she did! Would that she had not loved me
so well! It was love for me that broke her heart!"

"I've heard the minister say that Jesus loves us better than even a
mother could," said little Molly. "He died for us because He loved us
so!"

"I wish I could feel sure that He loves me," said the singer, "but I am
so wicked, and I've led such a bad life!"

"He'll make you good if you ask Him," said Molly, confidently.

"Will you ask Him for me, child?" said the lady. "When you pray for
yourself and Kathleen, will you pray for me, too?"

Molly nodded.

"I'll be sure to," she said. "But oh! ma'am, won't you ask Him
yourself? He'll hear you if you speak ever so low."

But Madame Ganelli made no reply. And thinking she had stayed too long,
Molly went down-stairs.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER X.

KATHLEEN IS A SOURCE OF GRAVE ANXIETY.

THE autumn months proved wet and dreary. Winter with its sharp frosts
and chilling mists set in early, and Molly was thankful for the warm
frock which her kind friend had provided for her.

Kathleen was now fully engaged at the theatre. But Molly reaped small
advantage from her increased earnings, for her sister loved to squander
her money in useless finery.

Little Molly was growing more and more uneasy on her sister's account.
She scarcely knew what it was that she feared, but she had a vague
notion that Kathleen's character was suffering from her connection with
the theatre, and the associates she found there. It was in vain Molly
tried to speak of the Saviour to Kathleen. She only laughed at Molly's
"pious" ways, and refused to hear a word of what she called "cant."

How could Molly guard her sister from evil? There was one way, and only
one way, in which she could help Kathleen.

She was weak and helpless, but the unseen Friend was strong and mighty.
Surely Jesus would take care of Kathleen; and in faith that He would,
the child daily confided her sister to the Saviour's care.

Kathleen had no idea of the anxiety with which Molly's heart was
burdened on her account. She was in excellent spirits at this time,
cherishing bright though delusive visions of a happy future.

Once or twice she dropped hints of a delightful secret which Molly did
not share, and seemed ever in a flutter of excitement and gaiety. Molly
wondered at her sister's manner, and could not understand it. But at
last, its meaning was explained.

"Look, Molly!" cried Kathleen, in a joyous tone one night, when
they had come back from the theatre, and had just parted from Mr.
Vavasour—"Look here!" And she held up to view a beautiful pair of pearl
earrings.

"Oh, Kathleen, what pretty things!" cried Molly, in surprise. "Where
did you get them?"

"I neither found them nor stole them," returned her sister,
triumphantly. "Mr. Vavasour gave them to me. Isn't he kind?"

"They are very pretty," said Molly. Yet somehow she did not like them
so well, when she heard who had given them.

"How do they look?" asked Kathleen, as she fitted them into her ears,
which had long been bare of such ornaments.

Molly was forced to confess that they looked very grand indeed.

"Ain't they splendid?" exclaimed Kathleen, as she peered into the
little cracked looking-glass, which was the only mirror the sisters
could boast. "Oh, Molly, wouldn't it be nice to be a rich lady, and
have money to buy lots of lovely things?"

"Yes; I'd like to be a lady," said little Molly. "I know what I'd do
if I were rich," she added, softly; "I'd find out all the poor little
girls that hadn't no fathers nor mothers to take care of them, and I'd
give them warm clothes to wear, and nice things to eat and drink, and
I'd be ever so good to them."

"But wouldn't you like to buy yourself silk frocks and laces and
feathers?" asked Kathleen.

"I don't know," replied Molly; "all the gay clothes in the world
wouldn't make much difference to my looks, I guess; so it wouldn't be
any use my buying them, you see."

"But I should look well in them," cried Kathleen; "and I can tell you,
Molly, I mean to be a lady some day, and that before very long."

"'You' a lady!" exclaimed Molly, opening her eyes wide. "What do you
mean, Kathleen?"

"I will tell you," said Kathleen. "I've wanted to tell you for days,
but I didn't like. Now, Molly, you must not cry or make a fuss. I'm
going to leave you."

Molly could not believe her ears.

"To leave me!" she exclaimed, in amazement. "How? When? I don't
understand."

"I am going to leave you to-morrow," returned her sister, with cruel
distinctness. "I am going away to learn to be a first-rate actress.
There's a fine time before me. I shall be quite a lady, and wear pretty
dresses, and have plenty of nice things to eat and drink. Mr. Vavasour
has arranged it all; he's so good to me, is Mr. Vavasour. He has set
his heart on seeing me a splendid actress. What is the matter, Molly?
Why do you look like that?"

Molly's face had grown very pale, and there was a look in her eyes
which Kathleen could not bear to see.

"Oh, Kathleen, you cannot mean it?" she exclaimed, coming close to her
sister and clasping her tightly, as though she would never let her go.
"You cannot mean to go and leave me—me, Molly, your little sister, who
has no one else to love her? Oh, Kathleen, you cannot do it!"

"But, Molly, it is for my good, and for your good, too, in the end,"
said Kathleen. "Think what a fine thing it is for me. I shall learn to
be a splendid actress, and then I shall earn heaps of money. And I am
not going away from you altogether. I shall come and see you sometimes,
and bring you some of the money I earn. Mr. Vavasour kept saying what a
good thing it would be for you as well as for me. You would not have me
give up such a fine chance, surely?"

"Not if it was really for your good," said Molly, tremulously; "but oh,
Kathleen, I can't believe it. I don't like that Mr. Vavasour: he looks
a horrid bad man. I wouldn't trust what he says, if I were you."

"Nonsense, Molly, what can you know of him?" was Kathleen's quick
retort. "I can tell you he is a good friend to me."

"Do you think father would have liked you to make a friend of Mr.
Vavasour?" asked Molly.

"I don't know," replied Kathleen. But her heightened colour seemed to
show that she did know.

"Oh, I'm sure father would not have liked it," said Molly, earnestly;
"and he would not have liked you to leave me. He said I was always to
take care of you; and how can I take care of you if you go away?"

"Don't talk rubbish!" returned Kathleen. "I'm quite old enough now to
take care of myself."

"But what shall I do all alone?" urged Molly. "Won't you think of that,
Kathleen?"

"You'll manage well enough," said her sister, looking away from Molly
as she uttered the unkind words.

Molly's heart failed her, and she burst into tears.

"Now, don't cry like that!" exclaimed Kathleen, in a tone which
betrayed some emotion. "It's all settled, and can't be altered, so it's
of no use to make a fuss. I don't like leaving you, but there's no help
for it. I asked Mr. Vavasour if I could not take you with me, but he
said that was impossible. I'll come and see you as often as ever I can,
and bring you lots of nice things; so cheer up."

But Molly could not cheer up. How could she bear to think of Kathleen's
leaving her? What would life be worth to her without Kathleen? She
could not picture to herself the desolation that would follow.

Her tears fell fast, till Kathleen, weary of seeing her weep, proposed
that they should go to bed. They slowly undressed, and lay down
side by side; both with heavy hearts, for Kathleen felt many gloomy
forebodings, in spite of the bright anticipations she had professed.

Then, in the darkness, Molly confided her sorrow to the unseen Friend,
trying to believe that He would help her in this sore trouble. It
seemed as if everything were going wrong; yet surely He could set all
right. But would He?

   "'Lord, I believe: help Thou my unbelief,'" prayed little Molly.

Comfort came with prayer. The load which pressed upon her heart was
lightened: she ceased to sob, and was fast forgetting her sorrow in
sleep, when she felt Kathleen's arm softly stealing around her.

"Molly," Kathleen whispered, "I'm real sorry to leave you, but it can't
be helped now. You've been a good little sister to me, and I love you;
I do indeed, for all I've so often been cross with you. Kiss me, Molly."

Molly turned in a moment, and throwing her arms about her sister's neck
kissed her again and again. Then nestling close together, the two poor
children fell asleep.



[Illustration]

CHAPTER XI.

A SISTER'S DANGER.

"NOW, Molly, remember you are not to meet me at the theatre to-night.
There's no need, as I shall not be coming back here again," said
Kathleen to her sister the next morning. She spoke sharply. The emotion
she had shown on the previous night was no longer visible in word or
look.

Molly was about to set off for her morning's work at the
boarding-house. She started at her sister's words, and turned towards
her with a beseeching look:

"Oh, Kathleen, let me come," she pleaded; "you know I promised father."

"No, you must not come. I will not have you come. Do you understand?"

"Yes, but oh, Kathleen! I 'must' come. I cannot stay away."

"How tiresome you are Molly!" exclaimed Kathleen, and in sudden anger
she raised her hand and struck Molly in the face.

Molly shrunk back—her face crimson, her heart throbbing.

Never would Kathleen forget the look of pain and reproach with which
her little sister quitted the room and went off to her work.

That look haunted Kathleen during the rest of the day. For the first
time, it struck her how pale and thin Molly had looked of late. A small
sickly child she had ever been, but surely she had not before looked
so ill as she now did? A pang of compunction visited Kathleen, as she
reflected how completely she had failed to cherish her little sister.


Molly went about her work that morning with an aching heart. The
recollection of Kathleen's loving words as she bade her good-night,
made it easy for her to forgive the hasty blow. But the thought of the
coming separation and her fears for her sister's future rendered her
most unhappy.

Madame Ganelli, meeting the child on the stairs, was struck with the
woebegone expression of her little face.

"Why, what is the matter with you, Molly?" she exclaimed. "You look
as if you were suffering all the woes of the world. And what is the
meaning of that red mark on your forehead? Have you had a fall?"

Thus questioned, Molly could only cry.

Madame Ganelli saw that something had gone seriously wrong with her
little friend.

"Come in here, child," she said, opening the door of her own room;
"come in here, and tell me quietly what it is that troubles you."

For some minutes Molly's sobs prevented her from speaking. But at last,
growing calmer, she was able to explain Kathleen's intention of leaving
her, and the distress it gave her.

Madame Ganelli listened in silence till Molly mentioned Mr. Vavasour's
name. At the sound of that name, the lady started and turned pale.

"Vavasour, did you say!" she exclaimed. "Tell me, do you mean the man
acting under that name at the S— Theatre?"

Molly nodded.

"Oh dear! Oh dear!" cried the singer, greatly agitated. "You must not
let your sister have anything to say to that man, you must not indeed,
my child! I know him well; he is a bad, unprincipled man!"

"I knew it!" cried Molly. "I was sure that he was bad, but Kathleen
would not listen to me. Oh! What shall I do?"

"You must save her from that man at whatever cost!" said Madame
Ganelli, solemnly. "Beseech her, as she values her own soul, to shun
his friendship. Do not let her out of your sight, Molly; and if he
should persist in annoying her, just name me to him, and see what
effect that will have. I would go with you to the theatre and confront
him, but I am obliged to sing at a concert to-night; and even now I
have an engagement for which I shall be too late if I stay another
moment. But oh, Molly! Pay heed to my words—you must save your sister
from that man!"

"I will! I will!" cried Molly, earnestly, as the lady hastened away.

Trembling and frightened, Molly went back to her work. It was hard to
do it with such anxiety and fear working in her heart. But she prayed
to the unseen Friend, and He gave her the strength she needed.

She was thankful when the hour of dismissal came, and she was free to
run home. It was a cold, cheerless day, but Molly ran home so fast
that she was hot and breathless when she reached the house. Hurrying
up the stairs, she opened the door of the attic, only to find, to her
surprise, that Kathleen was not there.

"She will be in soon," thought Molly, though her heart sunk within her.

She began to prepare dinner, but she might have spared herself the
trouble, for the dinner-hour came and went, and time passed on, yet
Kathleen did not come. Fearing further reproaches and pleadings from
Molly, she chose to walk about the streets, and make her dinner of a
hot pie, rather than face her sister.

Her absence made Molly very uneasy. Too heart-sick to eat, she sat and
waited, growing faint and weary and more and more anxious as the hours
went on. She would have gone out to seek her sister, but feared to miss
her by so doing, and she wished to lose no time in warning Kathleen
against Mr. Vavasour.

After a while, Molly went to Mrs. Jones, and asked if she could tell
her at what hour Kathleen had gone out, and whether she had left any
message. But Mrs. Jones knew nothing of Kathleen's movements. She had
not seen the girl all day.

So, with growing anxiety, Molly went back to her lonely attic.

She must save her sister, Madame Ganelli had said, but how was she to
do it? She did not even know where Kathleen was at this hour. Oh! She
would do anything, anything to save Kathleen from evil, but it seemed
beyond her power.

There was One, however, who could help her. Surely the Lord Jesus would
save Kathleen. He knew where she was. His eye was upon her. He could
defend her from harm. And, falling on her knees, Molly entreated the
Lord to have pity upon Kathleen!



[Illustration]

CHAPTER XII.

KATHLEEN IS SAVED.

DAY faded into night, but Kathleen did not come. It grew so late that
Molly, feeling certain that her sister could not intend to return home
before going to the theatre, resolved to go thither in search of her.

She put on her cloak and hat and went down-stairs. An icy wind, laden
with tiny snowflakes, blew in her face as she opened the house door. It
was a dreary night. Already the pavements were white, and the gloomy
sky, without a star, threatened more snow.

But Molly was not to be deterred by the weather. She hurried along,
bravely struggling with the fierce wind, which took away her breath,
and drove her backwards.

Once she slipped and fell, but scarce conscious of her bruises, picked
herself up, and hurried on. She reached the theatre at last, but looked
in vain for Kathleen, who was already within the building. As she stood
at the side door, she asked some of the players who passed her if she
might see her sister for a few minutes before the play began. But they
said they did not know, and advised her to wait or to come again when
the theatre closed.

Molly would not go away, lest she should miss some chance of saving her
sister.

It was painful waiting in that bitter cold. The child's limbs grew
numb, and to warm them she began to walk to and fro in front of the
theatre. On such a rough night, the playgoers were few. But Molly saw
some carriages drive up, and their occupants, warmly muffled, alight,
and hurry into the theatre. Amongst these was a young lady with whose
appearance Molly was particularly struck. She was a dark handsome girl,
whose bright face bore a strong resemblance to Kathleen's.

She wore elegant and costly attire, such as Kathleen coveted, and was
accompanied by a gentleman who was evidently her father.

Molly noted the loving care with which he helped his daughter from the
carriage, and took her into the hall.

The sight gave Molly a pang of envy—not on her account, but on that of
her sister.

Why should that girl be so loved and guarded, whilst Kathleen, equally
pretty and graceful, was all alone in the world, with no one to protect
her from danger, save her weak and helpless little sister? Was it fair?
Why did God suffer such differences to be? Could He not make things
more equal, if He liked? It seemed as if He did not care. Was it indeed
true that there was One who loved the poor and friendless?

Once more, the old doubt stirred in Molly's heart, but she would not
give it place.

   "'Lord, I believe; help Thou my unbelief!'" she cried.

And faith grew strong again.

But soon it began to snow in real earnest, and the misery of Molly's
situation was doubled. The snow covered her like a cloud, and wetted
her to the skin. She must have perished of cold, had not a cabman, who
had been watching her as she wandered up and down, taken compassion on
her.

"Why don't you go home, little girl?" he called to her. "You'll be
frozen if you stay here in the snow."

"I can't go home," said Molly; "I'm waiting for my sister, who's in the
theatre."

"You don't mean that she's gone in and left you outside," said the
cabman. "That is a shame."

"She did not know; she could not help it," explained Molly. "She is one
of the dancers, and I must wait till she comes out."

"Dear me, that's a pity," said the man; "it's not fit for a little
child like you to be in the streets to-night. But come and sit in my
cab; you'll be a little warmer here."

Molly gladly availed herself of this invitation. She got into the cab,
and the man piled the straw about her feet and ankles, and wrapped a
rug around her. Then he ran to a coffee-stall close by, and came back
with a steaming cup of coffee, which he made Molly drink. It brought
a warmer colour to her blue, pinched little face; her teeth ceased to
chatter and her limbs to shake, and she soon declared herself quite
warm.

"You do look a bit better," said the friendly cabman, "but now tell me,
child, what can your mother be thinking of to let you out such a night
as this?"

"I've got no mother," said Molly. "Mother and father are both dead.
I've no one but Kathleen."

"Dear, dear!" returned the man, with a look of pity. "Only to think of
it! Why, I've got a little girl of my own at home, and I wouldn't let
her be out such a night as this, not if the Queen herself was to order
it, that I wouldn't."

"I shall not get far to-night, I reckon," he said, after a time. "I was
to be at the side door at half-past ten and wait for a gentleman. But I
shall want double fare for driving through this snow, if, indeed, I can
drive through it. There, it's half-past ten already, and the people are
beginning to come out, so I must drive round to the door. You want to
go there too, do you? That's right."

In spite of the cabman's persuasions, Molly now insisted on getting out
of the cab and standing at the door till her sister appeared.

There was great confusion and uproar as the people came out of the
theatre. Every one seemed to want a cab, and there were few cabs to be
had, and the drivers of these were in no reasonable mood. So shouting
and quarrelling resounded on all sides. Molly's friend grew impatient
because his "fare" did not come. He was talking of driving away, when
the side door opened and two figures appeared. Molly knew them in a
moment—they were Kathleen and Mr. Vavasour.

"Kathleen, Kathleen!" she cried, springing forward and seizing her
sister's arm.

"Molly, I told you not to come," said Kathleen, angrily.

"Kathleen, I have come to save you," said Molly, earnestly. "You must
not trust this man; he is a bad, wicked man. Oh, Kathleen, come home
with me—come home at once."

And she tried to pull her sister along.

But as she spoke, her own arm was roughly grasped. "Hold your tongue!"
hissed out Mr. Vavasour, as with cruel force he separated the sisters.

Pushing Molly back, he helped Kathleen into the cab, and his foot
was upon the step, when the cabman, seeing that something was wrong,
interposed.

"Stay a minute, if you please, sir," he said. "I must know the meaning
of this before I take you in my cab."

"Oh, don't let him take Kathleen away!" cried Molly, in piteous
distress. "He is a bad cruel man. Madame Ganelli says so."

At the sound of this name, the man's face grew white with rage.

"Take that, you wretched little hunchback!" he cried, turning upon
Molly in ungovernable fury, and dealing her a severe blow.

Blinded and stunned by that blow, Molly staggered back, slipped on the
edge of the pavement, and fell into the road directly in front of the
horse.

With a cry of fear, the cabman sprang forward, but he was too late. The
animal, startled by Molly's fall, reared wildly for an instant, then
plunged onward, trampling beneath his hoofs the child's unconscious
form.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER XIII.

NO LONGER DESOLATE.

ERE the horse had run many yards, it was stopped by a passer-by.

Kathleen sprang out of the cab, and rushed back to the spot where Molly
lay—a dark little heap on the white snow.

Mr. Vavasour had disappeared.

The child neither moved nor moaned when they lifted her from the ground.

"Oh, she is dead, she is dead!" cried Kathleen, in an agony of grief.
"Oh, Molly, Molly, what shall I do?"

"No, there is life in her yet," said the cabman. "Don't make a noise,
but help me to get her home. Do you live far from here?"

"Not far—in Church Lane, close to the Edgware Road," replied Kathleen.

Already a crowd of persons was beginning to collect on the spot. This
crowd attracted the attention of a tall, strongly-built man, wrapt in
a large overcoat, and wearing a travelling cap drawn down comfortably
over his ears, who was coming along on the opposite side of the
road, carrying a carpet-bag in his hand. Seeing that an accident had
occurred, he hastened across the road to inquire what it might be.

Something in the appearance of this gentleman made the people give
place to him as he pressed into their midst.

"Are you a doctor, sir?" asked the cabman, as the stranger bent down to
look at the child, whom he was supporting in his arms.

"Yes, I am a doctor," he replied. "Let me see the extent of the
mischief. Are there any bones broken, I wonder? Ah, some ribs
displaced, and there may be injury to the spine, I fear. Where are the
child's friends?"

"Her sister is here, sir," said the cabman, pointing to Kathleen; "the
poor little girl has no one else belonging to her, I believe. It's a
bad business, and the mean scoundrel who was the cause of it all has
taken himself off, I see. The child lives close by, sir. I was thinking
p'raps I could take her home in my cab?"

"Just so; I will help you. Now, my good girl, stand aside for a moment."

And, with the aid of this kind stranger, Molly was lifted into the cab
and slowly conveyed through the snow-cumbered streets to the place she
called her home.

Mrs. Jones, the landlady, was thrown into a flutter of excitement when
she learned what had happened to her little lodger. Her best feelings
came to the fore, and she bustled about, and did all she could to help
in the sad emergency. The gentleman who had accompanied the child home
was surgeon on board a steamship lying in the London Docks on its
return from Australia. He was as kind as he was skilful, and handled
the young sufferer with the utmost tenderness.

It was impossible, he said, to ascertain at present the full extent
of her injuries. On the morrow he should be able to speak with more
certainty, but it seemed to him a most serious case. When he had done
all he could for poor Molly, he took his departure, promising to come
again early the next morning.

"What is your name?" he asked Kathleen, as he went out of the room.

"Kathleen Macardie," she said.

"And you have neither father nor mother?"

"No, they are both dead."

"Macardie! Macardie!" said the surgeon to himself, as he went away.
"Strange that this girl's name should be the same as that of my
pleasant fellow-traveller. What was it that he said about wanting to
find a brother, who had two little girls? Can it be possible that
these children are the same? Surely not. And yet I remember he said
he had been away from England so long that he could scarcely know if
his friends were dead or alive. It's hardly likely to be as I imagine.
But still, if I see him at the hotel to-night, I will tell him of the
coincidence."

Throughout that night, Kathleen kept watch beside her sister. For many
hours Molly continued in a state of insensibility.

Once Kathleen fancied she heard Molly murmur her name. But when she
spoke in reply, her fond words awakened no response.

Unhappy indeed were Kathleen's thoughts as she watched. How she blamed
herself as the cause of what had happened, and with what remorse she
reflected on the unkindness and neglect with which she had treated her
sister!

Her self-reproach grew keener on the following day, when Madame
Ganelli, alarmed at Molly's non-appearance at the boarding-house, came
to inquire for her.

The singer listened sorrowfully to Kathleen's account of what had
happened. Then in return, she confided to the girl a story of wrong
and cruelty, which showed the true nature of the man in whom she had
been so ready to trust. Kathleen understood now from what deadly peril
her faithful little sister had saved her. Bitter tears of grief and
shame did she shed as she looked on Molly's pale, sad face, as she lay
unconscious of the love which wept over her.


The doctor arrived at an early hour the next morning, and to
Kathleen's surprise, he brought a friend with him. His companion was a
homely-looking man of medium height, and strong, square frame, whose
honest sunburnt face bespoke a kind, true heart. As the stranger
entered the room, Kathleen was reminded of her father, yet why she
could not tell, for this strong, sturdy man was after all very unlike
him.

But she was too anxious to hear the doctor's opinion of Molly's state
to think twice of the subtle resemblance she had perceived.

Molly still lay in a stupor, but the doctor's touch aroused her. Her
eyes slowly opened and gazed at him with a look of terror, whilst she
cried out in a sharp tone, full of pain, "Kathleen! Kathleen!"

"I'm here, Molly, close to your side," said Kathleen.

"You won't leave me!" cried the child. "You won't go away!"

"No, Molly, I'll never leave you, 'never!'" said Kathleen, earnestly.

Molly seemed satisfied, and her eyelids closed again.

[Illustration: "ARE YOU IN PAIN, MY CHILD?"]

The doctor bent over his little patient.

"Are you in pain, my child?" he asked, speaking in clear, distinct
tones.

Molly opened her eyes and looked at him wonderingly for a moment, then
shut her eyes once more.

"You speak to her," said the doctor, turning to Kathleen.

"Do you feel any pain, Molly?" she asked.

Molly looked up again with a faint smile. "No, no pain," she said
softly.

"Are you quite comfortable?"

"Yes, quite comfortable," she answered.

The doctor proceeded to examine her more closely, handling her with
what Kathleen thought was unnecessary roughness, but not a sound
escaped the child. She seemed unconscious of his touch.

"It is as I thought," said the surgeon, turning to the stranger. "That
numbness is a bad symptom. The lower limbs are paralysed."

His companion, who had been gazing intently at the sisters, started at
the doctor's words. "You do not mean," he whispered, "that the case is
hopeless!"

The doctor nodded his head. "She may linger for days," he said, "but
recovery is impossible."

The stranger looked shocked at this announcement. After a minute's
silence, he turned and addressed Kathleen.

"Your name is Macardie, is it not?"

"Yes, sir, Kathleen Macardie."

"Ah! I think I heard you had lost both your parents?"

Kathleen gave a sign of assent.

"Was your father's name James?"

"Yes, sir, it was," replied Kathleen, looking her surprise at being
thus questioned.

"Did you ever hear your father speak of his brother Tom?"

"Oh yes, sir, often. He said his brother Tom had gone to Australia, and
was making his fortune there."

"I am that brother Tom, child," said the stranger.

"You, sir—you? It can't be!" exclaimed Kathleen, in great astonishment.

"Yes, my dear girl, I am he! I returned to England a week ago, and have
since been trying to discover some trace of my brother's whereabouts.
I should not have guessed you were his children, however, had it
not struck me just now, when hearing you call each other Molly and
Kathleen, that those were the names by which your father spoke of his
two girls in his last letter to me."

"Then you did get the letter?" said Kathleen.

"Yes, but it was a year old ere it reached me. I was leading a
wandering life in the bush at that time, and had no settled home, so
the letter went from one place to another, till at last it fell into
my hands. I wrote in reply to the address which your father gave, and
enclosed some bank-notes, but I suppose my letter never reached your
father, as he had probably left that place long before."

"He never got the letter; I am sure of that," said Kathleen.

"I thought not, for I heard nothing more of him, though I wrote several
times. How long is it since your father died?"

"Nearly a year," replied Kathleen.

"And who has taken care of you? How have you lived since then?"

"There's been no one to take care of us," she said; "we've taken care
of ourselves."

Her uncle glanced round the cheerless attic, and his eyes filled with
tears as he thought of the hardships these children must have had to
endure in their lonely, friendless life.

"I will take care of you in future, Kathleen," he said. "Let us thank
God that He has watched over you in your loneliness, and now guided me
to you."

Kathleen's eyes drooped. Tears were glistening on their long, dark
lashes. She had indeed cause for thankfulness, but she could not help
the thought, "Oh! If only uncle had come sooner!"

"How glad Molly will be!" she said at last.

But her uncle knew that Molly would not long need his care. Her work
was done. Nobly had she kept her promise to her father, and striven to
guard Kathleen from harm.

Now the Good Shepherd, who had all along cared for this lone lamb, was
coming to gather her in His arms, and take her to rest in His heavenly
fold.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER XIV.

A WILLING SACRIFICE.

ON the next day, Molly awoke from the stupor in which she had lain for
so many hours. Her mind was clear and calm. She could not recall all
that had happened, but she knew that she was very ill, and she seemed
to know also that she could not get well.

"I shall go away as father did," she said, confidently.

And Kathleen's hopeful words could not persuade her otherwise. When
told of her uncle's coming, she took the news very quietly.

"Jesus has sent him to take care of us," she said gently, with a glad
light in her deep, dark eyes.

Her uncle would have liked to remove the little sufferer to more
comfortable quarters, but the doctor declared that to be impossible. In
the little attic where she had toiled and sorrowed, her young spirit
was to gain its release from toil and woe.

"Molly, dear," her uncle said to her, during the course of that day,
most of which he spent by her bedside, "tell me what more I can do for
you. Is there nothing you wish?"

"Only one thing," answered little Molly, "and I don't know whether
you can do it, but if it could be managed, I should so like to see my
minister again."

"We will see," said her uncle, who had heard Molly speak of the
minister to whose words she had loved to listen; "I'll try to find out
where he lives, and ask him to come to you."

"Oh, thank you!" cried Molly, and her face beamed with joy.

"Kathleen," she said to her sister, when their uncle had gone out;
"Kathleen, I feel so happy about the future."

"Do you, Molly?" said Kathleen, with a look of wonder.

"I see it all so plain," said the child; "nothing could be better.
Uncle has been talking to me. He says he has plenty of money, and he
will always take care of you. And he will have you taught all the
things you ought to learn; you'll be quite a lady, Kathleen, just what
you wished, you know."

"I don't wish it now," said Kathleen; "I only want to see you get well."

"I shall never get well," said little Molly; "I asked uncle, and he
said Jesus would come and take me to Himself. And I'm so glad to go,
Kathleen. It's so much better, you see. I'm such an ugly, crooked
child. I should never be anything but poor little Molly. A little
hunchback, some one called me—who was it said so? Oh, it's so much
better I should go away. I shan't be a little hunchback then."

"Oh, Molly, I cannot bear it!" sobbed Kathleen, in bitter anguish.
"I cannot bear to lose you thus. It is all my fault. But for my
unkindness, my 'wickedness,' you might be well now. You have given your
life to save me from harm."

"Jesus gave His life for us all," the child murmured; "He died to save
us. I did not believe it once. I thought it was only a made-up story.
But it's all real true. I know it now. It's all real true. Kathleen,
you 'will' believe in Jesus now, won't you?"

"Oh, Molly," Kathleen confessed, "I might have believed before, but I
did not 'want' to."

"But you will now," urged her sister; "you'll let Jesus be your Friend?"

"If He will," replied Kathleen; "but I'm so wicked. It would serve me
right if He would have nothing to do with me."

"But He loves you," said Molly, "and He will make you good."

She was so weak that it tired her to talk long. She said no more now,
but lay still, holding Kathleen's hand tightly in her tiny wasted
fingers.

Kathleen sat by her side, shedding bitter tears as she mused over the
past. Sad and solemn were her thoughts in that quiet hour. Presently
she heard a tap at the door. Kathleen rose and opened the door, and
after a whispered talk with some one outside, came back to her sister.

"It is Ned Jones, Molly," she said; "he does so want to see you. Could
you bear to speak to him for one minute?"

"Oh yes, let him come in," said Molly; "I should like to see Ned."

Ned came in with a sad, subdued look.

"Poor little Molly," he said, as he took her tiny hand into his large,
brown palm, and gently patted it, "poor little Molly! I'm so sorry to
see you thus."

"Don't be sorry for me," she answered; "I'm happy, Ned. Jesus makes me
happy. It's all real true about Him. You must never say again that it
is only a make-believe."

"I never will," Nod replied, earnestly.

"Jesus will make you happy, Ned, if you will let Him," she said; "He
loves you, Ned; oh, won't you love Him too?"

"I will try," he murmured. And then, strong manly fellow that he was,
he burst into tears, and Kathleen was obliged to hurry him from the
room, lest the sight of his emotion should distress Molly.

But the child lay back on her pillow with a happy smile upon her face,
and did not seem the worse for Ned's visit.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER XV.

MOLLY'S DIFFICULTIES COME TO AN END.

AFTER some difficulty, Molly's uncle succeeded in finding the minister,
who readily consented to come at once to see the child. He listened
with sorrow to the story of the trouble Molly had known since he had
lost sight of her, and the sad way in which her little life was ending.

But he believed that God would bring gain out of loss, and crown that
blighted childhood with everlasting joy.

The day was near its close, and it was almost dark when Mr. Macardie
and the minister climbed the steep stair to the attic.

Molly had grown much weaker during the last hour. Her strength was
going rapidly, but her mind was still unclouded.

She recognised her minister as he entered the room, and stretched out
her little hand to him with a smile of welcome.

"I'm so glad you've come," she said, softly; and then turning to her
sister, she added, "bring the candle nearer, please; I want to see my
minister quite plain."

Kathleen brought the light and held it, whilst Molly gazed with love
and confidence at the kind face which looked on her with tenderest
sympathy.

"It is all right, is it not, Molly?" asked the minister. "Jesus is with
you."

"Yes!" she murmured, faintly, her lips parting with a smile. "Jesus is
with me!"

In a few simple words he spoke to her of the loving Saviour, and of the
happy home to which his own darling child had gone, and into which she,
too, would soon be gathered.

Molly seemed to understand what he said. The happy look lingered on her
face.

"It's all real true!" she whispered once. "All real true!"

Then the minister knelt by her bedside, and commended the dying child
to the care of the Good Shepherd.

As he prayed, Molly fell into a doze, from which she did not rouse
whilst he remained there.

As he went out of the house, the minister met Madame Ganelli, who was
coming to see her little friend.

Giving him a quick, observant glance, she said, "You are little Molly's
minister, are you not, sir?"

"Yes," he replied, looking at her with surprise; "I am little Molly's
minister."

"Oh, poor little Molly!" cried the singer, in a broken voice. "Is it
not a dreadful thing? My heart aches for the child. To think that she
should be sacrificed to a man's cruel rage!"

"Do not grieve for her," said the minister, gently. "Sad though her
case seems, it is well with the child."

"I know it! I know it!" cried the lady, bursting into tears. "She is so
good! Oh! I cannot tell you what I owe to little Molly! That child has
been my salvation!"

"How so?" he asked.

"To explain that, I should have to tell you a sad story," said Madame
Ganelli, stepping within the shelter of the doorway, and giving a
searching look into the minister's face.

The look seemed to encourage her, for she added, "The story is too long
and too sad to be told now and here, but I think I should like to tell
it to you some time, if you would let me. I have long wished to open my
heart to some one, and it seems to me that you are the person to help
me."

"Indeed! I shall be glad to receive your confidence, and to give you
all the help in my power," replied the minister, his voice full of
sympathy. "Could you come with me, now, to the mission hall? It is but
a few steps from here, and we could talk quietly there."

Madame Ganelli hesitated for a moment. She felt half frightened at
being so promptly taken at her word.

"Just as you like," he said; "if you would prefer speaking to me at
another time—"

"No, no," she responded, quickly; "there is no good in delay. I will
come with you at once, as you kindly ask me."

In a few minutes, they were at the mission hall. The gas was lighted
within, and a woman was moving about arranging the benches for the
service an hour later. At a word from the minister, she retired.

"Now," said he, as he gave the lady a chair, "what is it you have to
tell me? Do not be afraid to speak freely, as to a friend."

"I believe I shall find you a friend," she replied, "and will therefore
hide nothing from you. You will be surprised to hear that the wicked
man who brought this trouble upon Molly is my husband."

"What!" cried the minister, with a look of astonishment. "Your husband!
Is your name Vavasour, then?"

"No; nor is his. That is merely a name assumed to serve the purpose of
his profession. For a similar reason, I have called myself Ganelli. My
real name is Sherwin—Catherine Sherwin. I am no foreigner, but was born
and brought up in a pretty country place in Berkshire. My parents were
good Christian folk.

"My father was postmaster of the little town where we lived. He had to
work very hard, but his leisure was devoted to doing good. On Sunday
afternoons, no matter what the weather might be, he would walk several
miles in order to hold a cottage-meeting in an out-of-the-way place,
where there was no church for the poor people to attend. In our home,
we always had family prayers, night and morning. I can remember my
father's prayers now."

Here Madame Ganelli's voice trembled with emotion, and she was obliged
to pause for a while.

"I was my parents' only child," she went on presently, "and they
lavished on me all the love of their hearts. But I wounded their
love and disappointed their hopes. They were determined to give me a
good education, and that I might have unusual advantages, sent me to
a superior boarding-school, from which I returned accomplished and
polished, but vain and frivolous in character. I had learned that I
was beautiful, also that I possessed a remarkably fine voice. A vain
ambition awoke within me, and longing to display my gifts, I was no
longer satisfied to share my parents' humdrum life.

"I yearned to distinguish myself in a larger world, never doubting that
my beauty and accomplishments would win me the happiness I craved.

"My parents saw the mistake which they in their love had made. Vainly
they strove to arouse in me higher aspirations. My father pleaded
with me to give my heart to the Saviour, but I would not heed his
words. I did not want to be religious. I wanted to be gay and clever
and admired. My foolish vanity was fed from time to time by words of
admiration from friends outside my home. My voice was heard and admired
as I sang in our church, and the rector came himself to ask me to join
the choir. This I was easily persuaded to do, and from that time, the
very praises of God's house were a snare to me.

"Strangers inquired who was the lovely girl who sang so sweetly, and
compared my voice to that of their favourite opera-singer.

"Their words came to my ears, and gave a definite form to my ambitious
longings.

"I was eager to go to London and be trained for a public singer. Oh,
what a life, I thought, mine would then be! I pictured myself a famous
singer, with crowds flocking to hear me whenever I sang in public.

"How delightful to stand upon a glittering stage, and hear the hall
ring with applause of my song, whilst bouquets were tossed at my feet,
and I was flattered and admired as a queen!

"With such visions did I delude myself, never dreaming of the
heart-ache and disappointment, the sin and misery, which such a career
too often involves.

"I did not mention my wishes to my parents. I knew that they would
never consent to my leaving home, and devoting myself to such a
profession. But the thought was seldom out of my mind. I dwelt upon it
till selfish ambition stifled all sense of filial love and duty, so
that when temptation came, my will yielded a ready consent.

"That summer there came to our neighbourhood a fine gentleman, an
actor from one of the London theatres. He had come into the country to
recruit his health, and during his idle hours, I attracted his notice,
and was soon flattered by his constant attention. He was a handsome
man, and my vanity was easily beguiled by his winning manner. Ere my
parents even knew that I had made his acquaintance, I had confided to
him my ambitious dreams, in response to his lavish praise of my voice
and my appearance. He gladdened my ears with repeated assurances of
success, and took advantage of my weakness by urging me to marry him
without my parents' consent. If I became his wife, he promised me the
training I required to fit me for a public career. In glowing terms, he
described to me the grand future thus open to me. I listened, and in
my folly believed all. I fancied that I loved this man, of whom I knew
scarce anything, fancied that with him I should find a happiness that
would compensate me for the loss of my old home and my parents' love.

"But I did not yield to his persuasions without a struggle. It cost me
many a pang to think of leaving, without even a word of farewell, the
father and mother who loved me so dearly. But with artful words, he
made light of my scruples. It was only for a time, he said. I should
soon return to see my parents, and how pleased and proud they would be
when I won for them fame and distinction. So I took the irrevocable
step. In the darkness of night, I stole away from my home accompanied
by this man. We were married the next morning in London, and at once
started for the Continent."

Here Madame Ganelli made a pause. The minister said not a word, but
waited till she could recover herself and continue her narrative.

"I never saw my father and mother again," she said at last. "Before I
had been long married, I learned the true nature of my husband, and saw
what a fatal mistake I had made.

"We settled in lodgings in Paris, and there my musical education began.
My husband spared no pains in procuring me the best instruction. He had
set his heart, for his own sake, on my success.

"I worked hard with a kind of desperate diligence, trying to kill by
industry the sore pain of remorse. For a time my husband treated me
with tolerable kindness. But as months rolled on, and my spirit grew
more and more despondent, he wearied of me, and often left me alone for
weeks at a time in my dull lodging.

"I heard nothing of my parents all this while. My husband would not
allow me to write to them. I should see them, he promised, when we
returned to England. He had entered on a long engagement at one of
the Paris theatres, and did not propose returning to London till the
following year.

"Ere that time arrived, I became the mother of a beautiful boy. Oh, how
I loved my precious babe! He was the sole joy of my life. I used to
picture to myself the day when, carrying him in my arms, I would make
my way back to my old home, and falling at my mother's feet beseech her
to forgive me, if not for my own sake for that of the child.

"But it was not to be.

"My musical studies compelled me to consign my babe to the care of
another for the greater part of each day. This was a great trial to me.
I grudged every hour passed away from my boy, and was always anxious
lest harm should come to him in my absence. He was a small and delicate
child, and did not thrive as I could wish.

"At last, the time came when my husband was free to take me to London,
there to make my 'début' as a singer.

"Ah! What hopes and fears contended within my soul when I landed on
the English shore! Not from anxiety for professional success; I had
ceased to care much about that. But I hoped to see again the faces of
my father and mother, and to hear them say that they forgave me.

"But this hope was soon slain.

"At the hotel, where we were to rest that night, I chanced to take up
a newspaper. My eye glanced over the list of deaths. Suddenly my heart
stood still, and a numbness took possession of my frame. For there in
that line was my mother's name! Then I knew that my wicked conduct had
broken her heart."

       *       *       *       *

"I scarcely know how I lived after that. I was like one in a dream,
save when I had my baby in my arms, and was comforted by the touch of
his tiny hand smoothing my cheek or playing with my hair.

"I began to sing in public, but my singing was not the success my
husband had hoped it would prove. It was good in its way, but it lacked
inspiration. I won my fair meed of praise, but gave no promise of
rising above mediocrity in the ranks of singers.

"My husband was furious at what he termed my failure. But in vain, he
stormed and threatened. I could do no better.

"At last there came a day I shall never forget. My beautiful boy was
suddenly taken ill. All day he lay on my lap, his little body racked by
convulsions, which threatened death at every moment.

"I was engaged to sing in an opera that night, and my husband had set
his heart on my making a sensation. I implored him to find some one to
take my place, and get me excused, but he would not listen to me.

"The child would be all right, he declared, and I must and I should
sing. With cruel force, he took me from my child, as he lay panting and
struggling, a sight to rend a mother's heart, and carried me off to the
theatre at which I was to sing.

"I sang that night as I had never sung before. Tortured with anxiety,
trembling from excitement, I stood upon the stage. My song was a wild
lament, and I poured out in its swelling notes all the anguish of
my soul. It was with no feigned misery that my voice quivered, and
the reality of my emotion penetrated to the hearts of my audience,
thrilling them in response. As my song died away, a thunder of applause
greeted my ears. The building re-echoed with the sound of my triumph. A
bouquet fell at my feet.

"As in a dream, I heard the shouts and clapping; through a haze of
tears I saw the admiring glances cast upon me; then bowing low, I
retired. Thus were my girlish dreams realized. Did any one envy me that
night, I wonder?"

The speaker's voice again failed her. Tears would have their way, and
some minutes passed ere she could go on with her story.

"I cannot dwell upon the events of that night," she said, speaking with
forced calmness. "When I reached home, my boy was dead. They told me
that for an hour before he passed away, he kept calling for me in baby
words.

"I must pass over the anguish of that time. It almost killed me. I was
ill—very ill—for weeks.

"When I recovered, I was an altered being. My beauty was gone, and with
it all hope of shining as a star in the musical world.

"My voice had lost its power. I could no longer command the rich, full
notes which had won me admiration. Even if my voice regained strength,
as a physician declared that in time it would, it was but too evident
that I should never be more than a second-rate singer.

"My husband did not attempt to conceal his mortification at this issue.
He no longer made any show of affection for me, but treated me with the
utmost cruelty.

"Before I had fully recovered from the effects of my long illness, he
basely deserted me, leaving me to struggle through life as best I could
alone. I believe he went to the Continent, but I did not try to recall
him, though I might easily have traced him through his connection with
the theatres.

"The first thing I did in my freedom was to journey to my native place,
in the hope of finding my father there. But again I was too late, and
reached my old home only to learn that my father had died a few weeks
earlier.

"Heart-broken, I returned to London.

"I took lodgings in a quiet suburb, and found employment in giving
singing lessons. I called myself Ganelli; and when people questioned me
as to my history, I said that I was the widow of a foreigner.

"But I could not long endure the quietude and monotony of this life.
Painful thoughts tortured me, and I hoped to escape them by resuming my
old profession. My voice was now stronger, and I could sing in public
again.

"So I once more appeared in concert-rooms and halls, and sang with some
measure of success.

"But no happiness came to me. Sorrow and remorse were ever working at
my heart, though no one would have guessed it who heard me sing. The
songs I chose were generally of a lively character. I could not bear to
sing a melancholy strain; grief was too real a thing for me.

"Sacred music also I avoided. I felt myself too great a sinner to take
holy words upon my lips.

"However, one day, contrary to my usual habit, to oblige a friend, I
agreed to take part in an oratorio. In preparation for the concert, I
was one morning practising the sublime words, 'I know that my Redeemer
liveth,' when suddenly little Molly burst into my room, and eagerly
asked me to tell her how I was so sure that the Redeemer lived.

"The child was employed to clean boots at the boarding-house in which
I lived, but I had not seen her before. I was greatly startled by her
sudden appearance and the strange question she put. I would fain have
checked her eager words, but her anxiety was so real and earnest that
I felt bound to assure her of the truth, which I could never doubt.
Unhappy though I was, I believed that there was a God and a Saviour.
I told the child that what she had heard of the Lord Jesus was indeed
true, and she left my room with hope sparkling in her eyes. Then I
bowed my head and wept, because there was hope for that poor child, but
no hope for me.

"After this, I took great interest in little Molly. I felt anxious to
befriend her, but ere long personal anxiety drove her from my thoughts.
I had learned some time before that my husband had returned to London,
and was acting at the S— Theatre. I did my best to avoid meeting him,
and for a time was successful. But it was impossible for me, in the
public life I led, to long escape his notice. One evening, when I left
the hall at which I had been singing, I found him waiting for me at the
door.

"A stormy interview ensued. He urged me to return to him, but I,
remembering his past cruelty, and believing that he only wished me to
return that he might profit by my earnings, refused to listen to him.

"Then he threatened me, but hoping that the law would protect me from
his malice, I dared him to do his worst.

"At last, seeing that I was not to be moved, he left me; but from that
day, he lost no opportunity of annoying me. He vented his spite upon me
in a thousand ways too petty to describe, yet sufficiently vexatious.

"I bore it as well as I could. But what words can describe my
consternation when I learned from poor little Molly that the man who
had ruined the happiness of my life was calling himself her sister's
friend, and deceiving the poor girl into such a belief in his good-will
that she was ready to trust her future to him.

"Oh, what I suffered as I thought of Kathleen's peril! I felt I must
save her, yet was powerless to do anything. I could only solemnly warn
little Molly of the man's true nature, and entreat her to save her
sister.

"But though I could not help them, I knew there was One who could. For
years I had not dared to pray for myself, but now I prayed for those
poor children as I had never prayed before."

"And your prayer was answered," said the minister, as she paused.

"It was answered in a sad way," she returned.

"Sad to our human short-sightedness," said the minister. "But God's
ways are not as our ways. We can trust little Molly in His loving
hands."

Madame Ganelli was silent.

"Is this all you have to tell me, my sister?" asked the minister,
presently.

"I have told you all my story," the singer replied.

"But have you nothing to say of yourself? After you had prayed for
these poor girls, could you not bring your own case before the Lord?"

"I tried to do so," she said, tears springing anew to her eyes. "I
remembered some words little Molly had said to me. She told me that
Jesus loved me better than even my mother had loved me; and I knew that
bad though I was, my mother had never ceased to love me, and that if I
could have gained her side ere she passed away, she would have received
me without a word of reproach, and have given me a full and free
forgiveness. Is it true? Does the Lord love us like that?"

"Ay, it is true," he answered. "Your life has been hard and bitter, but
it was not the Lord's will that it should be thus. You have tasted the
fruit of your own wrong-doing. He would have saved you from misery,
but you would not let Him. The strokes with which He has smitten you
have been dealt in love. Now, if you will turn to Him, and seek His
forgiveness, He will soothe your heart's sorrows and give you peace, as
a mother would comfort her child who ran to her to heal the smarting
pain resulting from some act of wilfulness. Do not fear to trust His
love."

The singer's face brightened.

"I shall not forget your words," she said, as she rose to go; "they
give me hope. You are indeed a friend."

"The servant of a better Friend," he replied. "To Him I commend you. He
can meet all your need."


From the mission hall, Madame Ganelli hastened to Molly's bedside.

The child still lay in a doze, but signs of the approach of death
were becoming more and more visible to the eyes of the watchers. They
thought she would pass away in her sleep, but presently she moved,
opened her eyes, and looked up in bewilderment.

Her face was darkened with a look of distress. "Don't leave me,
Kathleen," she cried, pitifully; "don't leave your poor little Molly!
What will become of me if you go away?"

"I will never leave you," Kathleen told her, in a broken voice. "Oh,
Molly dear, I would not go away from you now for the world!"

At the sound of her words, Molly's bewilderment ceased. Her brow
cleared, and she looked at her sister with a smile.

"Oh no, I forgot," she said, faintly; "it is not you, but I, little
Molly, who am going away. And I'm glad to go."

She smiled, as with one hand she clasped her uncle's, and with the
other Kathleen's hand in token of farewell. Then she caught sight of
Madame Ganelli, and greeted her, too, with a smile.

The smile died away, and she looked into the singer's face with an
anxious, questioning glance, as if she would fain ask something, but
had no words.

Madame Ganelli thought she understood that look. "Molly," she said,
bending down close to her and speaking very distinctly, "Molly, I can
say it now from my heart, I 'know' that 'my' Redeemer liveth."

Molly understood the words. A gleam of joy lit up her tiny white face,
as half raising herself in bed she cried in clear, ringing tones, "I
know, I know! Jesus lives! It's all real true."

They were the last words she spoke. She sank back, and her eyes closed.
A happy, peaceful expression settled on her face, and remained there.
The breath came slowly and quietly through her parted lips. Soon no
sound broke the stillness of the room, for little Molly was away.

Doubts and difficulties would vex her spirit no more, toil and want
were for ever past. Out of the darkness of this lower world God had
taken her into the perfect light beyond, and the child was in the
presence of the Saviour whom on earth she had yearned to know.



                               THE END.



                  ————————————————————————————————
         London: Pardon and Sons, Printers. Paternoster Row.





*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IT'S ALL REAL TRUE ***


    

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will
be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright
law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,
so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United
States without permission and without paying copyright
royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part
of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™
concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following
the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use
of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for
copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very
easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation
of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project
Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may
do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected
by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark
license, especially commercial redistribution.


START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE

PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
Project Gutenberg License available with this file or online at
www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg
electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg electronic works in your
possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
Project Gutenberg electronic work and you do not agree to be bound
by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person
or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg electronic works if you follow the terms of this
agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg
electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the
Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
of Project Gutenberg electronic works. Nearly all the individual
works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
that you will support the Project Gutenberg mission of promoting
free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg
works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
Project Gutenberg name associated with the work. You can easily
comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg License when
you share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
other Project Gutenberg work. The Foundation makes no
representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg License must appear
prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg work (any work
on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the
phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed,
performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

    This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
    other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
    whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
    of the Project Gutenberg™ License included with this eBook or online
    at www.gutenberg.org. If you
    are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws
    of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
  
1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is
derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg
trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
will be linked to the Project Gutenberg License for all works
posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the
beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg work in a format
other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official
version posted on the official Project Gutenberg website
(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain
Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the
full Project Gutenberg License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg electronic works
provided that:

    • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
        the use of Project Gutenberg works calculated using the method
        you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
        to the owner of the Project Gutenberg trademark, but he has
        agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project
        Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid
        within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are
        legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
        payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project
        Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in
        Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
        Literary Archive Foundation.”
    
    • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
        you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
        does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™
        License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
        copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
        all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™
        works.
    
    • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
        any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
        electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
        receipt of the work.
    
    • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
        distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.
    

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than
are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of
the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set
forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project
Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate
or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right
of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
without further opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO
OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in
accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
or any Project Gutenberg work, (b) alteration, modification, or
additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg work, and (c) any
Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg

Project Gutenberg is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
from people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg’s
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg and future
generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see
Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by
U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.

The Foundation’s business office is located at 41 Watchung Plaza #516,
Montclair NJ 07042, USA, +1 (862) 621-9288. Email contact links and up
to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website
and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread
public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state
visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg electronic works

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
Gutenberg concept of a library of electronic works that could be
freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
distributed Project Gutenberg eBooks with only a loose network of
volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
edition.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG search
facility: www.gutenberg.org.

This website includes information about Project Gutenberg,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.