Mr Maurice accompanied Harry to the residence of the poor woman they had seen at Mr T.'s shop. It was a miserable hovel, but after all there was an air of cleanliness and comfort about it, that the most abject poverty can seldom of itself destroy. A white curtain, mended it is true, in very many places, yet looking quite respectable, still shaded the only window of the apartment. There were a few coals, on which was laid a single stick of wood, in the open fire-place, but it sent forth but a small quantity of heat, and the room felt damp and chilly. On a narrow bed drawn close to the fire lay the sick child, and beside it sat the mother plying her needle steadily, and every now and then casting an anxious eye upon her babe. She arose when Mr Maurice and Harry entered, and her reception of the boy was truly affecting. She told again and again of his following her the day before, and how kindly he had inquired if he could do anything for her, and then bursting into loud sobs, and leaning over the bed, she said nobody could do anything unless it was to cure her baby. Mr Maurice took the hand of the little sufferer, but it was burning hot, and the face, which was the day before pale, was now so flushed that Harry could scarcely recognise it.

'He has a fever,' said Mr Maurice.

'A fever! oh don't say so,' shrieked the poor woman, 'it was of that his father died—it is a cold, nothing but a cold! Oh, how could I be so foolish as to take him out!'

What could Mr Maurice do, but soothe her, and promise to be the child's physician? In a few moments she became calmer, and then she told him that her baby had been failing for a long time—day by day she could see that he grew poorer, but she could not tell why, till at last a cough had come, and concluding that it was occasioned by a cold, she had given the usual remedies, but without effect. The day before, having no one with whom to leave him, she had taken him out, and the fever that ensued was the result.

'Do you think I have killed my baby, sir?' she inquired mournfully; and she looked so long and earnestly into Mr Maurice's face for an answer, that he was obliged to reply 'No.' It was easy for him to discern that the death-blow was before received.

'Oh thank you,' replied the poor mother, joyfully, 'I was sure he must get well.' Mr Maurice was about to speak, but interrupted himself—should he undeceive her? Should he tear from her her last hope? perhaps it was weakness, but he could not do it. The blow was too sudden, too heavy, and it must be softened to her. She said nothing of poverty, but he knew by the rapidity with which she plied her needle in the intervals of conversation that she was toiling for her bread and fuel, and he secretly resolved to place her in a condition to devote herself entirely to the care of the child.

As Mr Maurice glanced around the room, noting each article it contained, and gaining from thence some item of knowledge concerning the character of its owner, his eye fell upon a shelf on which lay a few tracts, a Bible, and a hymn-book. 'I see,' said he, pointing to them, 'that whatever trial you may be called to pass through, you are provided with a better comforter than any earthly friend.'

The poor woman shook her head, 'They were my husband's, sir.'

'Your husband was a pious man, then?'

'He used to read the Bible and have family worship. Sometimes I went with him on Sunday to hear the minister, but I was always tired and drowsy, and could not keep awake.'

'I suppose you don't go at all now?'

'No, sir'

'Nor read the Bible?'

'No, not very often—I don't get time.'

'You surely have time on the Sabbath-day?'

'Oh, sir, that is the only leisure day I have, and then I like to take little James, and go with him to his father's grave, and when I get back, there's tea to make, (I never have tea but on Sundays, sir,) and somehow the time slips away till dark, when I go to bed. I can't afford to light a candle on Sunday nights.'

'Do you never visit your neighbours on that day?'

'Oh no, sir, since my husband died, I have not cared for going out, and a lone woman like me is but poor company for others, so they never come to see me.'

'You tell me of visiting your husband's grave—when you stand over it, do you ever think of the time you will meet him again?'

'Not often; he used to talk to me about it, but I never can think of anything but him, just as he lived, and I remember a great many kind things he used to say, and speak them over to the baby (little James—he was named for his father, sir,) in his own words.' And the poor woman bent over her work, and plied her needle faster than ever.

'It is natural,' said Mr Maurice, kindly, 'that you should remember your husband as he was when living, but it is strange that you so seldom think of seeing him again.'

'Oh, sir, that looks like a dream to me, I can't more than half believe it, but I know the other to be reality.'

'Yet one is as true as the other.' The woman sighed, and her countenance looked troubled, but she made no answer.

'You believe the Bible?'

'Ye-es, sir—my James believed it, and so it must be true.'

'Then you will allow me to read you a chapter, I suppose.'

'If you please, sir, but it always seemed to me a very gloomy book, and I am afraid it will make me low-spirited.'

'No, I think not, it may raise your spirits.' Mr Maurice took down the Bible, and opened it at the fifteenth chapter of First Corinthians. A piece of torn paper lay between the opened leaves, and a few of the verses were marked with a pencil. As Mr Maurice proceeded to read, the face of the poor woman was gradually lowered till it almost rested on her bosom, and at last, yielding to the intensity of her feelings, she buried her face in the bed-clothes, and did not raise it again till the chapter was finished.

'Oh, many and many is the time he has read it to me!' she exclaimed, 'and he put in the mark only the day before he died, so that I might find it; but I could not, oh I couldn't bear to read it!'

'And why not?'

'Oh, I know it is true! I know I shall see him again! but, sir, he was a Christian.'

'And so prepared to die, was he not?'

'Yes, sir, and my poor baby—'

'If it is taken away it will go to him in heaven.'

'Oh no, oh no! my baby must not die! My James was good, and has talked to me hours, and hours, about being ready to die, but I used to laugh at him—that goes to my heart the worst, sir, to laugh at him who was as gentle as that baby, him who is in his grave now. Oh if I could forget that! He is in heaven, sir, but I—I shall never get there! It's of no use to read the Bible to me, and talk to me—James used to pray for me, but it was of no use, I am too wicked. But if you can save the baby, sir, if God will let the child live, I shall have a little comfort.'

Mr Maurice had succeeded in rousing the poor woman's feelings, but he found that she felt more acutely than he imagined, and he now brought to his aid the still small voice of the Gospel. He told her of the fountain in which sin might be washed away, he told her of the place where the weary might find rest, and pointed her to the Lord Jesus Christ, for mercy; but though she appeared to listen, her thoughts were evidently fixed upon her husband and child, and the truths he uttered fell unheeded on her ear. After talking some time, he again read a portion of the Bible, prayed with the poor woman, and went away.

'Oh, how I pity her, father,'