an she!

"To-day," said the curate, "we shall praise God with the _mirth_ of the
good old hundredth psalm, and not with the _fear_ of the more modern
version."

As he spoke he bent to his oars, and through a narrow lane the boat soon
shot into Pine-street--now a wide canal, banked with houses dreary and
dead, save where, from an upper window, peeped out here and there a
sleepy, dismayed countenance. In silence, except for the sounds of the
oars, and the dull rush of water everywhere, they slipped along.

"This _is_ fun!" said Helen, where she sat and steered.

"Very quiet fun as yet," answered the curate. "But it will get faster by
and by."

As often as he saw any one at a window, he called out that tea and
coffee would be wanted for many a poor creature's breakfast. But here
they were all big houses, and he rowed swiftly past them, for his
business lay, not where there were servants and well-stocked larders,
but where there were mothers and children and old people, and little but
water besides. Nor had they left Pine street by many houses before they
came where help was right welcome. Down the first turning a miserable
cottage stood three feet deep in the water. Out jumped the curate with
the painter in his hand, and opened the door.

On the bed, over the edge of which the water was lapping, sat a sickly
young woman in her night-dress, holding her baby to her bosom. She
stared for a moment with big eyes, then looked down, and said nothing;
but a rose-tinge mounted from her heart to her pale cheek.

"Good morning, Martha!" said the curate cheerily. "Rather damp--ain't
it? Where's your husband?"

"Away looking for work, sir," answered Martha, in a hopeless tone.

"Then he won't miss you. Come along. Give me the baby."

"I can't come like this, sir. I ain't got no clothes on."

"Take them with you. You can't put them on: they're all wet. Mrs.
Wingfold is in the boat: she'll see to every thing you want. The door's
hardly wide enough to let the boat through, or I'd pull it close up to
the bed for you to get in."

She hesitated.

"Come along," he repeated. "I won't look at you. Or wait--I'll take the
baby, and come back for you. Then you won't get so wet."

He took the baby from her arms, and turned to the door.

"It ain't you as I mind, sir," said Martha, getting into the water at
once and following him, "--no more'n my own people; but all the town'll
be at the windows by this time."

"Never mind; we'll