ivolous maids--and to
beggars and babies and cripples and evil persons--and to all sorts and
conditions of human kind! Who knows to whom the stricken soul--downcast
whether of sin or sorrow--may appeal? Herein is justification--the very
key to heaven, with which one may unlock the door and enter, claiming
bliss by right, defiant of God Himself, if need were: "I have sinned, in
common with all men, O God, but I have sought to help such as were in
sorrow, whether of sin or the misfortunes incident to life in the pit
below, which is the world. You dare not cast me out!" Oh, men and women,
lads and maids, I speak because of the wretchedness of my dear folk, out
of their sorrow, which is common to us all, but here, in this barren
place, is unrelieved, not hidden. Take the hand stretched out! And
watch: lest in the great confusion this hand appear--and disappear. If
there be sin, here it is: that the hand wavered, beseeching, within
reach of such as were on solid ground, and was not grasped.

* * * * *

Ah, well! to my sister I ran; and I found her placidly sewing in the
broad window of our house, which now looked out upon a melancholy
prospect of fog and black water and vague gray hills. Perceiving my
distress, she took me in her lap, big boy though I was, and rocked me,
hushing me, the while, until I should command my grief and disclose the
cause of it.

"He's a sinful man," I sobbed, at last. "Oh, dear Bessie, care no more
for him!"

She stopped rocking--and pressed me closer to her soft, sweet bosom--so
close that she hurt me, as my loving mother used to do. And when I
looked up--when, taking courage, I looked into her face--I found it
fearsomely white and hopeless; and when, overcome by this, I took her
hand, I found it very cold.

"Not sinful," she whispered, drawing my cheek close to hers. "Oh, not
that!"

"A sinful, wicked person," I repeated, "not fit t' speak t' such as
you."

"What have he done, Davy?"

"I'd shame t' tell you."

"Oh, what?"

"I may not tell. Hug me closer, Bessie, dear. I'm in woeful want o'
love."

She rocked me, then--smoothing my cheek--kissing me--hoping thus to
still my grief. A long, long time she coddled me, as my mother might
have done.

"Not sinful," she said.

"Ay, a wicked fellow. We must turn un out o' here, Bessie. He've no
place here, no more. He've sinned."

She kissed me on the lips. Her arms tightened about me. And there we
sat--