u're good I may let you up
into my pulpit beside me."

Mrs. Slessor was amused at their talk, and well pleased too, for she
had a longing that her boy should work abroad in the service of Jesus
when he became a man. But that was not to be, for soon afterwards Robert
fell ill and died, so Mary became the eldest.

A dark shadow, darker than death, gathered over the home. Mr. Slessor
learned the habit of taking strong drink and became a slave to it, and
he began to spend a large part of his money in the public-house, and his
wife and children had not the comfort they ought to have had. Matters
became so bad that something had to be done. It was thought that if Mr.
Slessor could be got away from the bad companions who led him astray, he
might do better. So the home was broken up, and the family journeyed to
Dundee, the busy smoky town on the River Tay, where there were many
large mills and factories, and here, for a time, they lived in a little
house with a bit of garden in front. That garden was at first a delight
to Mary, but afterwards she lost her pleasure in it, for her father used
to dig in it on Sunday, and make people think he did not love God's Day.

She was now old enough to look after the younger children, and very well
she did it. Often she took them long walks, climbing the steep streets
to see the green fields, or going down to feel the fresh smell of the
sea. Sometimes her mother gave her a sixpence, and they went and had a
ride on the merry-go-round. It was the custom then for girls and boys
to go bare-footed in the summer, and Mary liked it so much that she
never afterwards cared to wear shoes and stockings.

On Sundays they all trotted away to church, clean and sweet, each with a
peppermint to suck during the sermon, and afterwards they went to Sunday
School. As a rule Mary was good and obedient, though, like most girls,
she sometimes got into trouble. Her hair was reddish then, and her
brothers would tease her and call her "Carrots," and she did not like
that. She loved a prank too, and was sometimes naughty. Once or twice
she played truant from the Sunday School. She was always very vexed
afterwards, for she could not bear to see her mother's face when she
heard of her wrong-doing--it was so white and sad. The quiet little
mother did not punish her: she would draw her instead into a room and
kneel down and pray for her. "Oh, mother!" Mary would say, "I would
rather you whip me!"

But all that soon p