your mother, and why did she send you here?" he continued.
"She said I was to come to this house," pointing to the number above the door, "and to say that she wanted to see him very particularly," said the child, evidently repeating her message, word for word, "and she's very sick and can't eat bread, and there's nothing else in the house!" she added, in a tone in which perplexity and resignation were strangely mingled.
The young man sighed heavily. Here was another atom, added to that pile of human misery which had begun to weigh upon his spirit like a nightmare. But he replied in the same cheery tone he had used to the minister:
"Well, I'm going that way, and if you'll wait a minute or two for me at a house I have to stop at, I'll go with you to see your mother, and perhaps I can help her a little." And, taking the little one's hand, the two passed on in the fast gathering dusk. The child, who had acquiesced with a look of real satisfaction, trotted on beside him, occasionally looking up, to study the face of her new friend and to return his smile, while doing her best to keep up with the unconsciously rapid pace which had grown habitual with him.
He drew up suddenly before a modest abode, the door-plate of which bore the inscription, "Rev. John Alden." The door was opened by a bright fair-haired boy, to whom Roland's heart went out at once—for he loved boys, as much as some people detest them, and that is saying a good deal. This boy was evidently accustomed to all sorts of visitors, and did not even look surprised at Roland's odd little companion. Yes, his father was at home. Would they walk in? He seemed to know just what to do with the little girl, whom he carefully lifted to a chair in the hall, while he courteously ushered the young man into a parlor whose comfortable confusion and open piano, littered with music and books, indicated as much life and occupancy as the precise and frigid order of Mr. Chillingworth's reception-room betokened the reverse. A merry tumult of children's voices and laughter came through open doors, seriously diverting Roland's attention from the business part of his mission.
A quick decided step soon sounded in the hall, and, with a kindly word to the child as he passed, Mr. Alden entered. He was a man of rather less than medium height, and rather more than middle-age, strongly built, alert, with a large head, broad forehead and bright gray eyes, in which kindliness and humor often seemed to contend for the mastery. His cordial greeting led Roland to feel him a friend at once, while his keen observant glance took in every point of his visitor's appearance, and read his character with a correctness that would have amazed him, could he have known it.
"Sit down, sir, sit down! No intrusion in the world. I am always glad to see young men, and to do anything I can to serve them."
It may be remarked in passing that Mr. Alden's congregation usually contained more young men than any other in Minton. Perhaps this remark partly explained it.
Roland had soon unfolded his errand, less systematically and more discursively than he had done to Mr. Chillingworth. Mr. Alden listened attentively, read the prospectus with his head bent toward his visitor, and one arm resting on the back of his chair; then folded it up, and handed it back to him, with a twinkle of both sympathy and fun in his kindly eyes.
"Well, my dear fellow, I heartily sympathize with your object. I don't know that I can give you much help other than sympathy; but whatever I can do to promote your aims, I shall do with pleasure. Anything that can promote the true brotherhood of man must always enlist the sympathy of a minister of Christ."
"I wish all ministers felt as you do, sir," replied Roland, thinking of his last visit.
"Well, you see, I fear some of us have to be converted yet—to that doctrine, anyhow. As for me, I've had special advantages. My mother was a Scotch lassie, and used to rock my cradle to Burns' grand song,"—and the minister hummed the chorus:—
"For a' that and a' that,
It's comin' yet, for a' that
That man to man, the warld o'er,
Shall brithers be, for a' that!"
"My parents were both Scotch," said Roland, with quick pleasure. "But I suppose you guessed that from my name."
"Yes, a good old Border name it is! I dip into Sir Walter and the Border ballads now and then, and I think we've made some progress toward Burns' idea since those days! Well, I believe that time is coming, but it won't be in your day or mine; and only one thing will bring it about—the growth of the brother-love. I preach, that in my way, and I bid you God-speed if you preach it in yours. Send along your paper! We've got enough and to spare already, but I couldn't shut my door against one started on that platform. And if I conscientiously can, I will recommend it to others, and give you any other help you may need. Only, my dear fellow, don't be disappointed if you don't accomplish all you hope for. Many of us are apt to think at twenty-five, that if 'the world is out of joint,' we, in particular, were 'born to set it right.' I know I did, and though I have not done a hundredth part of what I hoped to do, I probably shouldn't have done that percentage, if I had not started with great expectations. Only don't be discouraged, if they are not all realized! Now—is this little girl with you?" he added, glancing out into the hall where another girl, somewhat older than the boy who had opened the door, was filling the child's hands with cake and fruit.
Roland, suddenly recollecting the child, told all he knew about her, while Mr. Alden listened with evident sympathy and interest.
"Ah! Another of the sad cases of hidden misery that one is constantly stumbling on," he said, his voice and eye grown soft with compassion. "That child doesn't look like one accustomed to beg. If the poor woman wants a minister, why shouldn't I go with you? I am at your service."
"If it's quite convenient," said Roland, "it would be very kind if you would."
"Oh, as for that, ministers and doctors mustn't stand too much on convenience. I've learned a good many lessons from my medical friend Blanchard. We both own the same Master, and I've no more right to be careful of my convenience than he has. Well, my dear, come away!"
For, as he talked in his rapid energetic manner, he had been as rapidly donning overcoat and gloves, and, hat in one hand, now extended the other to the little girl.
"That's right, Gracie, wrap her well up! Tell Mother that I'll be back as soon as I can, but you needn't keep tea waiting for me, if you are all too hungry. Now then, you can shut the door."
Roland courteously raised his hat to the young girl, as she stood looking after them with a smile very like her father's, while her long, wavy, golden hair was rippled by the cold December wind. He felt a wistful regret at leaving the warm, homelike atmosphere behind, when the door at last closed upon them.
Mr. Alden drew a few more particulars from the child as they hastened on. Her mother had been ill a good many days, she couldn't tell how many. No, there had not been any doctor to see her. Mother said she hadn't money enough. They had bread, but no tea, and mother could take nothing but tea!
Mr. Alden darted into a little grocery and came out carrying two small brown parcels. Frequent practice had made him equal to all such emergencies. They had gone a good way past the better class of houses, into a region of unpromising and dingy tenements—a region long ago deserted by all who could afford to leave it. At last the child stopped at an entry door.
"It's here—up-stairs," she said, looking up at her companions. They went up a rickety stair, black with years of unwashed footmarks, and followed the child into the room. She entered; but they stood still on the threshold, while Roland's brow contracted as if with a sharp sensation of physical pain.
It was a wretched little
