n, for they would bring me no respect in a cynical
age like this--an age which Carlyle spits at and the great and good
John Ruskin chides. Sometimes my dear friend Mr. Cyril has
accompanied me on these occasions, and he has seen how I have been
humiliated.'

An involuntary 'haw, haw!' came from Sleaford, but looking towards my
mother and perceiving that she was listening with intense eagerness,
he said: 'Ten thousand pardons, but Cyril Aylwin's droll
stories,--don't you know? they will--hang it all--keep comin' up and
makin' a fellow laugh.'

'Well,' continued Wilderspin, 'on that memorable morning I was
impressed to walk down the street towards Temple Bar. I was passing
close to the wall to escape the glare of the sun, when I was stopped
suddenly by a sight which I knew could only have been sent to me in
that hour of perplexity by her who had said that Jesus would let her
look down and watch her boy. Moreover, at that moment the noise of
the Strand seemed to cease in my ears, which were rilled with the
music I love best--the only music that I have patience to listen
to--the tinkle of a black-smith's anvil.'

'Blacksmith's anvil in the Strand?' said Sleaford.

'It was from heaven, my lord, that the music fell like rain; it was
a sign from Mary Wilderspin who lives there.'

'For God's sake be quick!' I exclaimed. 'Where was it?'

'At the corner of Essex Street. A bright-eyed, bright-haired girl in
rags was standing bare-headed, holding out boxes of matches for sale,
and murmuring words of Scripture. This she was doing quite
mechanically, as it seemed, and unobservant of the crowd passing
by,--individuals of whom would stop for a moment to look at her; some
with eyes of pure admiration and some with other eyes. The squalid
attire in which she was clothed seemed to add to her beauty.'

'My poor Winnie!' I murmured, entirely overcome.

'She seemed to take as little heed of the heat and glare as of the
people, but stood there looking before her, murmuring texts from
Scripture as though she were communing with the spiritual world. Her
eyes shook and glittered in the sunshine; they seemed to emit lights
from behind the black lashes surrounding them; the ruddy lips were
quivering. There was an innocence about her brow, and yet a mystic
wonder in her eyes which formed a mingling of the child-like with the
maidenly such as--'

'Man! man! would you kill me with your description?' I cried. Then
grasping Wilderspin's han