'We all have our love stawries,' said McClingan.

'Mine is better than yours,' she answered, 'but it shall never be told.'

'Except one little part if it,' said Trumbull, as he put his hands upon
her shoulders, and looked down into her face. 'It is the only thing that
has made my life worth living.'

Then she made us to know many odd things about her work for the children
of misfortune--inviting us to come and see it for ourselves. We were to
go the next evening.

I finished my work at nine that night and then we walked through noisome
streets and alleys--New York was then far from being so clean a city as
now--to the big mission house. As we came in at the door we saw a group
of women kneeling before the altar at the far end of the room, and heard
the voice of Margaret Hull praying' a voice so sweet and tender that we
bowed our heads at once, and listened while it quickened the life in us.
She plead for the poor creatures about her, to whom Christ gave always
the most abundant pity, seeing they were more sinned against than
sinning. There was not a word of cant in her petition. It was full of
a simple, unconscious eloquence, a higher feeling than I dare try to
define. And when it was over she had won their love and confidence so
that they clung to her hands and kissed them and wet them with their
tears. She came and spoke to us presently, in the same sweet manner that
had charmed us the night before' there was no change in it We offered to
walk home with her, but she said Trumbull was coming at twelve.

'So that is "The Little Mother" of whom I have heard so often,' said
McClingan, as we came away.

'What do you think of her?' I enquired.

'Wonderful woman!' he said. 'I never heard such a voice. It gives me
visions. Every other is as the crackling of thorns under a pot.'

I came back to the office and went into Mr Greeley's room to bid him
goodbye. He stood by the gas jet, in a fine new suit of clothes, reading
a paper, while a boy was blacking one of his boots. I sat down, awaiting
a more favourable moment. A very young man had come into the room and
stood timidly holding his hat.

'I wish to see Mr Greeley,' he said.

'There he is,' I answered, 'go and speak to him.'

'Mr Greeley,' said he, 'I have called to see if you can take me on the
Tribune.'

The Printer continued reading as if he were the only man in the room.

The young man looked at him and then at me--with an expression that
moved me to a