hetic word Man--no one knows the
true meaning of Man's position here among the other living creatures
of this world, if he has never wanted food. Hunger gives a new seeing
to the eyes.'

'That's as true as the blessed stars,' muttered old Mrs. Boswell,
Rhona's beloved granny, who was squatting on a rug next to her son
Jericho, with a pipe in her mouth, weaving fancy baskets, and
listening intently. 'The very airth under your feet seems to be
a-sinkin' away, and the sweet sunshine itself seems as if it all
belonged to the Gorgios, when you're a-follerin' the patrin with the
emp'y belly.'

'I thank God,' continued Wilderspin, 'that I once wanted food.'

'More nor I do,' muttered old Mrs. Boswell, as she went on weaving;
'no mammy as ever felt a little chavo [Footnote 1] a-suckin' at her
burk [Footnote 2] never thanked God for wantin' food: it dries the
milk, or else it sp'iles it.'

[Footnote 1: Child.]

[Footnote 2: Bosom.]

'In no way,' said Wilderspin, 'has the spirit-world neglected the
education of the apostle of spiritual beauty. I became a "blower" in
the smithy. As a child, from early sunrise till nearly midnight, I
blew the bellows for eighteen pence a week. But long before I could
read or write my mother knew that I was set apart for great things.
She knew, from the profiles I used to trace with the point of a nail
on the smithy walls, that, unless the heavy world pressed too heavily
upon me, I should become a great painter. Except anxiety about my
mother and my little brothers and sisters, I, for my part, had no
thought besides this of being some day a painter. Except love for her
and for them, I had no other passion. By assiduous attendance at
night-schools I learnt to read and write. This enabled me to take a
better berth in Black Waggon Street, where I earned enough to take
lessons in drawing from the reduced widow of a once prosperous
fogger. But ah! so eager was I to learn, that I did not notice how my
mother was fading, wasting, dying slowly. It was not till too late
that I learnt the appalling truth, that while the babes had been
nourished, the mother had starved--starved! On a few ounces of bread
a day no woman can work the Oliver and prod the fire. Her last
whispers to me were, "I shall see you, dear, a great painter yet;
Jesus will let me look down and watch my boy." Ah, Sinfi Lovell! that
makes you weep. It is long, long since I ceased to weep at that.
"Whatsoever is not of faith is sin."