according to the public opinion of the place, he was right.  Only on Sunday morning was the place quiet, and that was not because the dwellers there were at church or chapel, but simply because the weary were enjoying an extra hour’s sleep, or the dissipated had not, as yet, overcome the effect of the previous evening’s debauch.

All at once Parker’s Piece became known far and near.  One night a little one, happily, died, instead of making a feeble and ineffectual struggle to live; an inquest was held, and the result was a revelation of misery and wretchedness which made all Sloville stand aghast.  A London radical newspaper sent down an artist to give a rude drawing of the place, and a special correspondent, whose report was as sensational as could be desired.  Parker’s Piece became as well known to the British community as the Mansion House, or St. Paul’s, or Westminster Abbey, or the Houses of Parliament.  Money showered down on the place, little to the advantage of the deserving, who are the last to proclaim their needs, but greatly to that of the publican and sinner.  It was felt by everybody something must be done.  A grand church was erected at one corner, to which, however, no one went; a mission hall was started at the other by a speculative philanthropist, on his own hook, while a building was secured for a similar purpose by the leading people of the leading Congregational Church in the town.  It was a real case of line upon line, and precept upon precept.  The plan was to catch sparrows by putting a little salt on their tails, and the plan succeeded to admiration.  There was a free tea, which was a great success; then there was a regular breakfast on a Sunday morning, which answered still better.  The men looked rather sheepish at first, but the women were too many for them.  The fleshpots of Egypt prevailed, and there was a good attendance, a state of resignation when the talking began, and some awful singing afterwards.  On the day of which I write, there was a little extra excitement in the place.  Christmas was coming, and all the good people for miles around had determined to give a treat to the wretched ruffians in the very worst part of the place—the big building to which I have already referred.  When the leading man of the place, Carroty Bill, heard it, he swore that there should be no psalm-singing there.  But his better-half modified his rage as she drew a lovely picture of creature comforts to be had—the boots for the children, the flannel for herself, and the extra money they would have for a jolly spree after all.

‘I ’ave been to one of their meetin’s,’ said she, ‘and we ’ad a rare good time of it, I can tell yer; tea, and coffee, such heaps of bread-and-butter, and plum-cake, and great meat-pies; it was well worth while a-settin’ an hour or two in a warm room while the parsons were a-talkin’; and rally you’d ha’ thought as how the ladies and gentlemen seemed to think as we were brothers and sisters.  We wos quite a ’appy family, we wos.’

‘And then to be preached to,’ said Carroty Bill, ‘arterwards.  I’m blessed if I’ll go.’

‘Well, I’ll take the children.’

‘Not Joe; yer can’t take him.’

‘Why not? he ain’t yer child.’

‘I know that, but I wants him—that’s enough.’

Carroty Bill kept his word; he had an idea of his own in his thick head, and he was determined to carry it out.

Unfortunately, at that time there was a good deal of antagonism between Church and Dissent.  Generally, we know, it is otherwise, and they love each other as fellow-Christians ought—a love that does you good to contemplate.  As the Dissenters gave the feed, it occurred to the Vicar and his curates to make a house-to-house inspection—to see for themselves the nakedness of the land, and to relieve it accordingly.  At the bar of the White Horse the new move was announced, and Carroty Bill, as he sat smoking and drinking, hit on a plan of which he said nothing to his female partner—for wife she never was—till the time had come to carry it out.  Said he, when he heard the Vicar was to come:

‘Here, Joe, you come along with me.’

‘No; I want to go with mother.’

‘You come along with me, or it will be the worse for yer, I can tell yer,’ said Carroty Bill, with a look which forbade all further thought of disobedience on the part of the poor boy.

‘You’ll make the boy as bad as yerself,’ said the woman, ‘let him come along with me.’

‘Not if I know it,’ said the ruffian.

‘Why, wot’s up?’ asked the woman.

‘Wot’s that to you?  The boy must come.’

And with a swelling heart, and a tear in his eye, the boy went.  He was filthy, and ragged, and half starved.  Yet there was something noble about the little lad’s face; had he been washed, and well dressed, and well fed, with his curly hair and fine forehead and bright blue eyes, he would have been as handsome a little fellow as was to be seen in the town.

‘Don’t lead him into mischief,’ said the poor woman imploringly.

‘In course not, my dear,’ said Carroty Bill sarcastically: ‘he’s a gentleman, ain’t he? and he’ll behave as such.’  Then, turning to the boy, who was still lingering by the woman’s side, he said, ‘Come here, you little warmint, or I’ll break every bone in your body.’

This conversation was carried on at the White Horse, where the speaker was mostly to be found.  The woman gave way; the speaker took the boy to Parker’s Piece.  Arrived there, he sought out his own apartment, and with the help of the lad cleared it of everything it possessed in the shape of chairs or clothes or table, leaving only a little straw, on which the family were to lie.  A dealer just by purchased his household chattels for a song, about as much as they were worth, and Carroty Bill had just time to get a drop at the White Horse and return in an unwonted state of sobriety before the Vicar and his curates entered.

‘Dear me,’ said the kind-hearted Vicar, ‘what wretchedness!  How is it you are so badly off?’

‘Wife ill, and I got no work to do.  It’s very hard on a poor fellow like me,’ said our carroty friend.

‘Ah! it is indeed,’ said the Vicar.

‘Yes, I little thought as I should have come to this,’ said the man, in a desponding tone.

‘Ah, well,’ said the Vicar, ‘perhaps we can help you a little.’

‘Thank you, sir, kindly,’ said the hardened hypocrite.

‘Dear me!’ said the Vicar, ‘what wretchedness—not a stick in the place!  We must do something to relieve this distressing case.  What say you?’ said he to his companions.

‘Oh, a pair of blankets and a hundredweight of coal at the least.’

‘Yes, and a loaf of bread.’

‘Oh yes! and a little warm clothing for the wife and child in the corner.  That’s a bright little fellow,’ said he, pointing to Joe; ‘is that your eldest?’

‘No, sir, he ain’t one of ours,’ said the woman.  ‘We keep him out of charity.  His mother is dead.’

‘Dear me!’ said the Vicar; ‘who would have thought it?  What true benevolence!  How it does shame us who are better off!  How beautiful it is to see the poor so ready to help one another!’

‘Ah! it is little we can do, but we allus tries to do our duty,’ said Carroty Bill, with the look of a saint and the courage of a martyr,