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whilst Adam had yielded to them, and been beaten down at
every point. It hurt the man to know this, and he took
every opportunity of avoiding Mr. Drummond. He succeeded
in doing this while at his work, but met the person he least
wished to see when and where he least expected to find
him.

CHAPTER V.
THE NEW MANAGER TAKES ADAM UNAWARES.

IT was Saturday afternoon and Adam Livesey had taken

charge of all his children except the eldest, who was staying
at home to fetch and carry and to be made generally useful
during the weekly "cleaning up" for Sunday. The one left
behind cast longing glances after the little troop who, under
father's convoy, were being taken out of mother's way. It
was rather hard lines for the solitary little damsel, who
would have so enjoyed a run in the park with the rest, but
who, being ten years old and the eldest of six, mostly boys,
paid the penalty of being a sort of household drudge.

The mother could hardly be blamed for this, since, as

she truly said, her own work was never done, and in the
pinched face and often peevish tones of Mrs. Livesey there
was not much to remind any one of rosy-checked Maggie
Allison. But she might have made her willing little helper
much happier, if she had only led the child instead of driving
her, and given kind words in place of perpetual fault-finding.
 As to Adam, he silently rejoiced in being able to take so
many of the youngsters into the somewhat grimy enclosure
called the "People's Park." There was plenty of space for
play, the air was as fresh as any in the neighbourhood, and
there were swings, trees and flowers, though to pluck a leaf
or blossom with clean gloves on would have destroyed their
purity for ever.

However, the park was not so much for the clean-gloved

people, so that mattered little; and it was a vast source of
enjoyment to many whose hands were innocent of covering,
and alas! their feet too, in many cases.

Before lifting the baby in his strong arms, Adam

whispered a promise in the ears of Maggie junior, which
brought a flush of gladness to her rueful face, and would do
much to cheer her during her hours of toil. Then he went off
to the park with his youthful following.

The day was pleasant, the breeze just fresh enough to

make walking delightful; and the spirits of the children
infected their father.

Mrs. Livesey often said that Adam gave them more

words during one walk than anybody else got out of him in
a week; but then she should have remembered that she
talked more than enough for them both. Even patient Adam
had been driven to say that there was no edging in a word
beside her. Anyway, he always answered the little folks
pleasantly and kindly, and the walk to the park seemed
short to them all. Once there, the four went off to the
swings, and baby being asleep, Adam sat down on a bench
well sheltered by a background of shrubs, lest his smallest
charge should suffer by exposure to the breeze, and began
to think things over.
 When with the children, the man's mind was often
sorely perplexed. He loved them dearly, and, in spite of the
change in his wife's looks, he had never varied in his
affection for her. True, she was not just the Maggie she used
to be. But was he not to blame? If he had not married her,
somebody brighter and better off might have made her his
wife. Was it not wrong of a man who was so little in himself,
and who had nothing else, to marry at all? And would the
children have no better prospect to look forward to? He
could see nothing tempting before any of them. He was only
forty years of age now, and his wife thirty-four, but how
much older both of them looked than their actual ages!

Just at this moment Adam heard voices behind the

shrubs. One was that of a girl, and as she passed on, she
gaily hummed a tune. It was one that his wife used to sing
in her clear fresh voice, which he had so loved to hear,
during their brief courtship and early married days. The
sound actually brought moisture, of which he felt
thoroughly ashamed, to Adam's eyes, and he was gently
disengaging one hand so as to wipe it away, when a
different voice addressed him by name. He recognised it in
a moment. It was that of Mr. Drummond, and he was by no
means glad to hear it, though the words were friendly and
the tone pleasant.

"I am glad to see you here, Livesey," said the manager.

"You are a wise man to use your half-holiday in this way.
One would think that most workers who spend so much
time in places like the cotton mill or smithy would be glad to
get the smoke and steam blown out of them, now and then,
by such a sweet breeze as this."

Adam gave a sort of indistinct murmur of assent, said

something about bringing the children out, and "cleaning
day," and made as if he would have risen.
 He did not want the manager's company, but the man's
instincts were ever on the side of courtesy, and he never
failed in civility to those whom he had been used to call his
"betters."

Mr. Drummond saw the movement, and laying his hand

on Adam's arm, said, "Do not get up, please. You might
rouse that little sleeper. What a pretty creature!" And he
looked admiringly at the child, whose forehead was shaded
with dark rings of silky hair, and her long lashes rested on
the flushed cheeks.

"By your leave," added the manager, "I will sit down
beside you."

What could Adam say? Certainly he could not refuse, for

the seat was as free to Mr. Drummond as to him, and there
was room for five occupants. Then, too, the feeling of
antagonism which he had cherished towards Mr. Drummond
was beginning to give way already. That gentleman's frank
admiration of his youngest born touched Adam in his
tenderest point, and his politeness had gained him a further
advantage.

"To think he should say 'By your leave' to me. Why, one
of the men wouldn't have troubled himself to do that, but
would have flung himself down, and maybe stuck his feet
up with his shoe soles against my clothes, and whether I
wanted his company or no."

Adam's cogitation was perfectly correct, and by the time

he came to the end of it, he could say with truth, "Sit down,
sir, by all means. There's lots of room. Besides," he added,
"nobody has any call to ask leave."

"Maybe not, in one sense, and so far as occupying a

seat goes. But when a person you know is sitting quietly
and alone, it is perhaps as well to find out whether your
company will annoy him or not."

"I suppose that would be so if it were a gentleman,"

returned Adam, slowly.

"Do you mean a gentleman sitting?"

"Yes. I reckon very few folks would trouble about

manners to a man o' no account like me."

"Then it would be their own loss. It always does harm to

those who miss a chance of showing civility. I had a very
good mother, Adam. Not a fine lady, according to the
world's notion, but a hard-working woman, and she taught
me this lesson, that one-sided politeness is not worth much.
It should go everywhere, and be practised all round."

"You learned that lesson right off, and you've

remembered it, sir," said Adam, on whose face an
expression of interest was already manifest.

It was very curious, but during the brief moments that

the two men had spent together, the manager succeeded in
touching the most sensitive chords in the striker's nature.
His love for his children, his own low self-estimate, and his
memory of the mother who "gave up."

Mr. Drummond went back to the first. Bending over the

lovely unconscious baby-sleeper, he touched its soft cheek
with his lips, too gently to rouse it, however, and then
looking into Adam's face with a smile he asked, "How old is
she?"

"Fifteen months. She can toddle about a bit, but not

walk far; so I have to carry her, you see."
 "I have one the same age. We lost the next oldest."

"And so did Maggie and me. Maggie's my wife, sir."

"How many have you altogether?"

"Six, and the eldest is just turned ten, poor little lass!"

Mr. Drummond put two and two together, and guessed

the meaning of these last words. "I suppose she is at home
helping her mother, and would have liked to be here."

"That's just it, sir. The rest are here. They will come to
me when they're tired."

Adam would have liked to ask how many children Mr.

Drummond possessed, but his shyness overcame him, and
he remained silent. The manager wanted to draw him out a
little, and thinking the best way was by being
communicative, said, "You are twice as rich as I am,
Livesey."

"Then you have three children. I was just wondering.

But you are a many times as rich as I am in other ways—
learning and place, money and manners. I have very little
of anything except children. Seems queer now, doesn't it?"

"It does. People often puzzle over that subject, and

wonder that the meat and the mouths get sent in different
directions. But you must not fancy that I am a rich man, or
that my way has been made smooth for me."

Adam never could tell how it was that he managed to

get out the question, but he next found himself inquiring
about Mr. Drummond's mother, to whom he had alluded as
"a hard-working woman."
 "I beg your pardon, sir," said he, "but was your mother
one that 'gave up'?"

The manager hardly understood Adam's meaning. He

hesitated, then said, "Gave up what?"

Livesey's features worked in a most peculiar manner, as

if he might be engaged in the manufacture of words by
which to make his meaning clear. After a struggle, he
answered, "I'm not sure whether I can tell you, sir. But
mother was left a widow with three of us, and nobody to
help, and she was like somebody that has too much weight
on them. She bent under her troubles, and had a grave face
and a down-trodden look and way with her. Things were
very dull at our house, and I am sure it was because, as
mother said, she 'just gave up.'"

By dint of thinking and questioning, Mr. Drummond at

length realised Adam's meaning. "I see," he said. "Now I
can answer you. My mother would have been one of the last
to give up. She worked bravely and steadily. She set us an
example of cheerfulness, and cheered us when we were
inclined to break down. With a mother leading her children
in the right way, and always looking up with her bright face
heavenward, we children could hardly help following, could
we?"

"But what did she look up for, sir?"

A glance at the questioner showed Mr. Drummond that

Adam made the inquiry in perfect good faith.

"I do not mean that her eyes were always looking up.
She had to keep those on her work, in a general way. I
meant that her thoughts were turned heavenwards. She
remembered God's many promises to the weary, the
troubled, the widow and the fatherless, and believing that
they were meant for her, and that He was faithful that had
promised, the faith cheered her, and she looked for their
fulfilment, and taught us to do the same; only I, for one,
was a careless scholar."

Adam answered something, but the words meant little.

The slight allusion made to God's dealings with His

children had carried the striker out of his depth already.

Mr. Drummond perceived this, and began to question

Adam in turn. He was interested in him, and showed it.

"It's a queer thing for anybody to want to know about

me. I told you about mother. She wasn't like yours. I might
ha' been something better than a striker if I'd had a chance.
I had it in me to learn, and I was never afraid of hard work.
Maybe, if I hadn't got married after mother died, I should
have saved money and gone in for a bit of learning; but I'd
been slaving on for years, making no friends, because she
couldn't abide neighbours. A big town's an awful lonely
place if you've nobody belonging to you. I couldn't stand
the loneliness. Then it's hard work starting again at school
after you're grown up; so I thought, 'There are lots more in
the same fix as I am. I may as well settle down to it like the
rest,' and I did.

"I had used to work for mother, you see, and when she
was gone, it seemed so queer to have all my wages for
myself, and be slaving away for just Adam Livesey. There
was a girl next door—"

Here Adam's face began working again, as the image of

Maggie as she then was came into his mind.

"Never mind," he continued, almost fiercely. "She has

been my wife for a dozen years, and sometimes I wish she
hadn't. Nothing the matter with her, mister. Don't you go
thinking that. Only marrying me turned as pretty a lass as
you would wish to see into a mother of seven—one dead,
you know—and a thin, weary woman, with too many
children, too much work, and far too little money to make
things comfortable. Maggie couldn't go out to work and
help. How could she, with seven of 'em born in ten years?
And one pair of hands! I say, sir, it's wonderful she has
managed as well as she has done. Don't you think now I did
wrong by that pretty young woman by marrying her? If she
hadn't had a place to lay her head in, it would ha' been
different. But she had a nice home with her mother, and
used to sing like a lark up and down their house, and for a
good while after she was married to me. She never sings
now. There's a man at Rutherford's that has a bird. It used
to be in a large place, where it could fly about and hardly
know it was in prison. Something happened to the man who
owned the place, and the birds were sold. This man bought
the one I spoke about. It was the grandest singer, he said.
He put it in a little cage; but though he gave it the primest
spot in the cottage, it never sang any more.

"When he told me, I said I was sorry to hear it, but I

thought to myself, 'That's just like my poor Maggie.'

"Well, I've had my share of slaving too, but it came

natural. And plenty of them to slave for, as you may see,
sir."

Adam gave a grim wintry smile as he alluded to the

number of his olive branches, but at the same time he
pressed the sleeping child a little more closely, as if to say,
"I should not like to part with one, for all that," and
relapsed into silence.
 CHAPTER VI.
"THE THIN END OF THE WEDGE."

ADAM LIVESEY'S story was not told all at once and

straight forward as it is here put down, but jerked out at
intervals in a spasmodic fashion, and a few words at a time,
in response to much kindly questioning. Then the man
seemed half ashamed of having been drawn out, and
shrank into himself again.

But Mr. Drummond had taken a liking to Adam. He felt

strongly for the man, with his cravings after a higher and
better life, his ignorance of the greatest yet simplest truths.
He was profoundly touched at the wealth of fatherly
tenderness that lay deep down in his heart, at his painful
sense of wrong done to the pretty bright-eyed girl who had
so sadly changed since she had linked her fate with his, at
the manifest hopelessness which weighed down his whole
nature.

Moreover, the manager had observed Adam at his work,

and noticed how faithfully it was performed. He had found
out that while many laughed at his grave, silent ways, all
respected "the poor chap," as they called him, even while
they pitied him for having "no pluck to help him to stand up
for himself."

Mr. Drummond, in his own mind, compared Adam to

those Gentiles of whom St. Paul wrote in the Epistle to the
Romans. "This man," he thought, "is living in the heart of a
great city and in the midst of a Christian nation. And yet,
while he is as ignorant as a heathen, he has been doing by
nature the things contained in the law. He has a tender,
though not an enlightened conscience, and has obeyed its
dictates and been a law unto himself. If only the gospel
message could be brought home, first to his ears, and then
by the blessed influence of the Holy Spirit to his soul, what
a different life would Adam Livesey's become! Oh that into
his heart might shine the light of the glory of God, in the
face of Jesus Christ.

"And," he added the silent but heartfelt prayer, "oh that

I might be made the instrument in leading him to the one
and only Saviour!"

If the baby had waked up in a very short time, all this

talk would have been impossible, but the words which take
long to write are quickly spoken.

"I cannot help thinking, Adam, that it is not too late for
you to better your position. I know you can in one sense, if
not in another."

"It's no good talking, sir. What's done is done. I'm forty

years old, and I'm just where I was at twenty-five, as far as
wages go. I had two to feed then. I've eight now. Things are
past mending for me. I'm o' no account in the world, and I
shall never be of any."

"Of no account! I cannot agree with you there. You are

of account, as a workman. What would become of
Rutherford's if all such as you were withdrawn? There are
many idle, useless people in the world, who could be better
spared in a batch, than one man who does as honest a
day's work as Adam Livesey."
 In spite of himself, Adam's deep set eyes were kindled
into an expression of pleasure, but he did not speak.

"Are you of no account to the wife and little woman at

home? To the playing children, whose voices sound very full
of music to me, as the breeze wafts them this way? Are you
of no account to that sweet little sleeper who rests so
trustfully and safely in her father's arms? Adam, your heart
must tell you that there are many by whom you could be ill
spared."

"Yes," he answered, simply. "They would want me."

"And though poor Maggie may not have cheeks as

round and rosy, and her voice may not often be raised in
song, I daresay she has a warm heart at the bottom.
Depend on it, Adam Livesey, she keeps the best corner of it
for you, though many cares prevent her saying much about
it. Would she let anybody call you names behind your
back?"

The striker's face assumed a look of positive

amusement, as he said, "It wouldn't be good for 'em to try
that game on with Maggie."

"Does she ever keep the best bit for your dinner, and try
to go without any of it herself? I say 'try,' Adam, because I
know you would not let her."

"To be sure she does. That's just Maggie. Why, sir, you
might have seen for yourself."

"And do you think, if it could be possible for any one to

say, 'Mrs. Livesey, if you would like to go back twelve years,
you can. You shall be the girl Maggie again, only you must
say "good-bye" to Adam and these six little plagues who
make you so much work, and are so full of wants. Say the
word, take back your youth and your roses, on condition
that you part with husband and children.' Would she say the
word, Adam?"

The man was strangely moved. The rugged features

worked again, and showed the effect of Mr. Drummond's
questioning. "No, no," he cried, "Maggie may scold a bit and
say sharp words, then wish she hadn't, but nobody would
drag that word out of her."

"Here's a nice man to say he's of no account. Why,

Adam, you are a regular fraud, to set up as a person that
nobody would miss."

Mr. Drummond laughed cheerily, and his hearer caught

the infection. "I'm afraid I haven't come out very well in this
line," he said. "I shall be getting conceited just now, and
forget to give up."

This was the effect the manager wished to produce. He

wanted Adam to take a higher and more just view of his
calling and responsibilities. He wanted first to raise his self-
estimate, to encourage efforts at self-improvement; above
all, to lead him to a knowledge of his spiritual need, and the
all-sufficiency of Christ to meet it. But this last part of the
subject would have to be carefully approached. There must
be no plunging recklessly into it. He must prove his good-
will to Adam, and thus secure his confidence, and he was a
good deal astonished at the progress already made.

The manager had no thought of meeting Adam when he

did, but he had been longing for such an opportunity, and
was thankful for such a fulfilment of one of the desires of
his heart.

"You think, then, I did not do wrong by marrying

Maggie?" said Adam, interrupting Mr. Drummond's thoughts
by the inquiry.

"I imagined that question had been settled a few

minutes ago."

"I'm glad you think so, sir. It has troubled me for a long
time, ever since her mother went away to live beside her
elder daughter. She used to be next door to us, but the
children began to run in and out too often, and Maggie was
p'raps a bit too having, seeing her mother was independent
like. Maggie will have a matter of three hundred pound
when the old lady dies, so I may well wonder she married
me."

Adam was relapsing, and would be o' no account again

directly.

"No doubt she was, and is, very fond of you, Adam. You
have proved this by your own evidence, and I was sure of it
almost without that. I do not think I durst have felt certain
if you had been like some of the men whose wives are
waiting for them at pay time. You do the best you know how
to do, and Maggie must respect you."

At this instant the baby opened her dark eyes, then

looked into Adam's face, and began to laugh and struggle to
be on her feet. Just then, too, the other four children, tired
of the swings and wanting a change, approached the bench
on which they had left their father.

The sight of the gentleman checked their rapid advance,

and they hung shyly back. But Mr. Drummond encouraged
them, saying that he wanted to see Adam's flock, and at the
father's call they came to be inspected.

The manager congratulated Adam on their healthy

looks, and the signs of a mother's care to be seen in their
neatly mended clothing. Then he asked, "What school do
you go to on Sundays?"

Adam answered for the children. "They don't go

anywhere, sir. They get schooling enough on week days,
when they must go. I'm glad for them to learn, but they
want their little heads to rest one day in the seven."

It was a good thing that baby became obstreperous,

and insisted on joining her elders on the ground. So they
formed themselves into a bodyguard for the youngest
darling, and led her to the soft grass on the other side of
the walk, where they enticed her to join in gambols
contrived for her special benefit.

"We fathers like to look on such pictures," said Mr.

Drummond, still lingering by Adam's side, and pointing to
the children.

"We do, sir."

Mr. Drummond, by coupling his own interests with those

of Adam, had forged another connecting link between them.

"By the way, Livesey, where do you and your family go

on Sundays?"

The man's first inclination was purposely to

misunderstand the question and say, "Sometimes to this
place, but mostly we stop about home." But the striker's
nature was a true one, and he hated himself for thinking of
such a paltry subterfuge. So he replied,—

"To say the truth, sir, we don't go to church or chapel

any more than the children go to school. I never was in a
religious way myself, and Maggie, though she had been
used to go to a place of worship when she was in service,
never had much heart for it. She liked better to take a walk
with me, and show her pretty face beside my ugly one. She
wore pretty bonnets too, in those days. If we did not
trouble about church before, we weren't likely to put
ourselves out when there was a baby to mind. So we keep
to a church with a chimney, though by that we don't mean
what your public-house men do. It's just our own little place
you would find us in, mostly."

"I wish you would go for a time or two to hear a

gentleman I know something about," said the manager.

"I don't know why you should trouble about where we

go, sir," said Adam, with the least pleasant manner Mr.
Drummond had noticed. "What matter does it make
whether a poor chap like me spends his Sunday at home or
in the streets, so long as he isn't doing any harm, or
drinking himself into a—"

"Do not say 'beast,'" remarked Mr. Drummond, with a

good-humoured smile.

"I won't. I was stuck for a word, and didn't like to say
that, seeing it isn't fair on the beasts, that only drink when
they're thirsty, and know nothing about reeling zig-zag to
their kennels. Maybe I might ha' said drinking till they have
to stay from work on Monday, to sleep themselves sober. I
reckon I've a right to spend my Sunday as I like, so long as
I'm always up to time at Rutherford's."

It would have been strange if there had not been a

spice of doggedness somewhere in Adam Livesey's
composition. The man who had all his life manifested such
firmness in resisting the temptations to self-indulgence,
such steadiness and industry in his humble calling, such
patient consideration for mother and wife in turns, was
almost certain to carry some of these excellencies to the
extreme. His very firmness was sure to have a stubborn
side, and Mr. Drummond detected its whereabouts.

Adam held strong views with regard to outside

interference from his employers, and, to use a homely
phrase, "his back was up" the moment the manager made
an allusion to the mode in which he and his family spent
their Sabbaths. His tone was alike resentful and expressive
of injury received, and the conversation had reached this
point when Adam uttered almost the identical words with
which this account of his life begins.

"I am never a minute behind my time, and I work as

long as any man does in all the place. I never stopped a job
by being off a single day when there was anything to do,
and for what need this new man be poking and prying into
what I do on Sundays? I've a right to do as I like, and I
shall too, for all his meddling."

These were Adam's thoughts, and Mr. Drummond had

little difficulty in reading them, though he answered only
the words.

"It does not matter to me, in one sense," he said, "but

it does in another. We have had a very pleasant talk
together, and you have been kind enough to tell me a good
deal about yourself and those at home. I know you are not
reckoned a great talker, and so I felt your frankness the
more. I cannot help seeing what a life of constant toil it has
been, and, as a man who feels for and sympathises with his
brother man, I thank God you have not made worse of
things, either for yourself or those who depend on you for
bread. I honour you for your patience, steadiness and
industry, but you must not be offended if I wish for you
something better still. Do not think me a meddler for
speaking of what is outside Rutherford's."

Adam felt a little ashamed. Mr. Drummond's politeness

rebuked his ungracious manner and dogged utterance. He
seemed to have read his thoughts too, and answered them,
for had he not felt very angry with him for interfering with
his freedom of action outside the works? He was, however,
too confused to reply, and the manager added, "Once I was
like you. I thought it was enough to give six days' work to
my employers, and to be just in all my dealings, doing harm
to no one. But I was led to see that I had to answer for
more than my six days' work, that there were duties to
God, my neighbour, and my own soul, that called for my
urgent attention. I was very proud of the work done, but I
forgot to be humble on account of what I left undone, or did
amiss. There were calls which I had not answered,
opportunities neglected, privileges despised, gifts received
without thankfulness, and Sabbaths misused. Perhaps I
turned them to more account than you do, for I was restless
and eager to get on in the world. I often spent them in
calculations and plans for bettering myself. I did not even
rest, but I brought all the anxieties of the other six days
into the Sunday. Then I was led to think and act differently."

Adam's dogged manner was all gone, charmed away he

hardly knew how, and he was eager to hear more. But the
children were coming, and the boom of a great clock was
borne to their ears by a favourable breeze. This told the
striker that Maggie would be expecting their return, and
there was a good mile between the park and home.

Mr. Drummond rose from the bench also. "No time now
to tell you what brought new life and light and joy to my
life, Adam. But it was through a message which God was
pleased to send me. And it is because my whole being has
been changed and made glad by it, that I want everybody
else to have the same joy. The man who brought me the
message is in Millborough now, holding some mission
services. I wish you would go and hear him, Livesey. His
name is Kennedy, and the room is in Aqueduct Street.
Good-bye."

Mr. Drummond held out his hand. Adam was so

astonished that at first he did not hold out his own, though
not from unwillingness.

"Will you not shake hands, though I have been stepping

on forbidden ground? I am not 'the manager' here, but with
you as man to man."

If Mr. Drummond had after cause for fault-finding, it

was certainly not on account of want of heartiness. The
effects of Adam's grip, made his fingers tingle for some
time. Then, after a farewell pat to the baby, and an
acknowledgment of the striker's lifted cap, the manager
walked rapidly away.

CHAPTER VII.
MAGGIE, HER BEST SIDE OUT.

Two pairs of eager eyes had long been on the watch,

and two eager tongues loudly announced that "father" was
coming, as Mr. Drummond approached his own doorstep.
 Then there was a rush of the two pairs of feet belonging
to the aforesaid, and the hall resounded with welcoming
kisses and alternate expressions of delight that he had
come at last, and of reproach that he had been so long
absent.

The children's faces and voices were not the only ones
that told of gladness when Mr. Drummond made his
appearance. Their small hands, which had seized both his,
were disengaged again. The father had plenty of loving
caresses for his little people, but he did not overlook the
mother's claims. Putting them aside for a moment, he
passed his arm tenderly around her, as he said with a laugh,
"Don't be greedy, darlings. Mother must have her share,"
and then affectionately kissed the fair face in which he
could read a whole volume of glad welcome.

"You have thought me long, Edith, though you do not

scold me for having kept you waiting."

"I sometimes make up my mind to lecture you, Robert,

but when you come, I am so glad to see you that I forget
the words I meant to say, and tell you this instead."

Mrs. Drummond's sweet face was so irresistible that

again her husband bent his tall head to kiss it. The flush
that overspread her cheeks was as bright as that on a girl's,
but the colour faded too quickly. It was Robert Drummond's
greatest trouble that his wife was not strong. Apart from
this, no wedded couple could well be happier.

"Is Mr. Kennedy here?" asked the manager.

"No, but he will be before six o'clock. He must leave

again by seven, to be ready for the service. So far, he says,
few men have been at the room, though many women have
attended. To-night, he hopes it will be the other way, as the
men have their half-holiday, and could well spend a portion
of it at the mission service."

"If they would. But it is not easy to get them to think

so. I have been trying hard to enlist one recruit, but I fear
with little success."

Here the children put in their claim to the father's

attention, and, as usual, not in vain. Mr. Drummond and the
small people were soon in the midst of a romp, and it was
hard to say whether they, he, or the mother who looked on,
enjoyed it the most.

Then the youngsters were sent off to the nursery, and

just after their departure, Mr. Kennedy arrived, and tea was
brought in.

During the meal they said little. The mission preacher

was tired, and needed to rest both voice and body before
the evening's work should begin. But knowing Mr.
Drummond's wish to be of use to the large body of
workmen placed under his orders, he was most anxious to
hear whether he had made any progress. He listened with
deep interest to all the manager had to tell, and especially
to his account of the recent conversation with Adam
Livesey.

Mrs. Drummond's sympathies were also enlisted,

especially by what Adam had said about his wife, and the
change wrought in pretty Maggie. "You would be just the
one to comfort the poor fellow, Robert," she said. "You
could enter into his feelings as few men could. He is the
same as that silent, rugged-looking workman about whom
you told me, as having such a strange attraction for you. It
was singular you should meet with him so unexpectedly,
and have a chance to talk quietly about so many things."
 "It was. We got on very well until I mentioned Sunday,
and asked how he spent it. However, we parted good
friends, and I have broken the ice between manager and
man."

"You will not let it close up again," said Mr. Kennedy,

and then he rose to take leave of his hostess.

Mr. Drummond was going with him to the Mission Room.

When there, he looked eagerly at each new arrival, but was
disappointed in his search for the face of Adam Livesey.

Adam's arrival at home was not marked by such

pleasing features as that of Mr. Drummond. He was rather
late, and the children, weary with play and the walk to and
from the park, were getting fretful, baby included.

"If you didn't want your tea, you might ha' thought
these poor little things would, let alone Maggie and me,
after being at work all day," said Mrs. Livesey in no amiable
tone. "You may well cry, baby. You're almost famished, and
father has given you nothing, I'm sure."

Mrs. Livesey might well be sure on this point, for, seeing

that Adam had taken no eatables in his pocket, and had
handed every farthing of wages into her keeping on the
preceding evening, it would have been difficult for him to
feed the children.

He was going to say so, but he checked the inclination

to defend himself, as he had done on many similar
occasions. "She knows as well as I do," thought he. "It's
only her way. Least said's soonest mended, and naught said
needs no mending."

So, having carefully rubbed his shoes and seen that the
youngsters did the same, he went through into the little
lean-to scullery to wash his hands. When he sat down at the
table, he found his wife full of curiosity about the gentleman
who, the children said, "had been sitting talking to father
nearly all the time."

"Tom says he was a gentleman from Rutherford's, and

that he saw him twice, on days when he brought your
dinner. But I told him he must be wrong. No gentleman
from Rutherford's would sit talking to a poor labourer like
you."

"Tom was right. It was Mr. Drummond, the new

manager."

"Well, I never! What's going to happen now? Whatever

had he got to say?" inquired Mrs. Livesey, brimming over
with curiosity.

"I can hardly tell you, Maggie. He said how pretty baby
was, and he kissed her little face, and told me he had one
like her at home, and he'd lost the next oldest, same as we
did. I told him she favoured her mother, and what a bonny
lass you were when I first knew you."

Mrs. Livesey stared in utter astonishment. What could

possess him to begin talking such nonsense as that—he that
went about in a general way as if he couldn't say "Bo!" to a
goose. In the very depths of a heart not yet cold and dead,
she was pleased at the nonsense, though she gave a little
groan and replied, "You might well say 'was.' My pretty days
have been over this long while."

"That's as folk think, Maggie;" and the poor fellow

looked at her with a world of kindness in his eyes. Mr.
Drummond's words had stirred him strangely, and made
him see Maggie in a new light. He had made up his mind
that she did not regard him as the thief who had stolen her
youth and beauty by bringing her to his own poor home,
but as the husband whom she still loved better than herself,
and as the father of her children.

Maggie plied him with many questions, but there was no

longer any sharpness in her tone or unkindness in her
words. Finally, she concluded that the new manager must
be a very nice gentleman, and that something good might
come of the meeting. Like Adam, she did not think much of
being interfered with out of working hours. The very fact of
Mr. Drummond's having talked about going to a place of
worship, and such-like, inclined her to be suspicious. "If he
had promised to raise your wages, there'd ha' been
something to think about. Even a shilling a week would ha'
been better than nothing."

"I don't suppose he could give me a rise, Maggie,

though I daresay he would make things better for
everybody if he could. You see I'm only a labourer, and I get
same as the rest that do the same work."

"You do more and better, for you stick to it," said

Maggie. "But there, it's no good talking."

At this moment, a smart rap at the door interrupted the

speaker, and she went to open it. There stood two decently
dressed men, strangers, one of whom said, "You'll excuse
us disturbing you, missis, please, but there's a lot of us
going round in twos, to ask our neighbours to come to the
mission service to-night. You'll be kindly welcome, if you'll
come, and your master, too. You'll hear something good."

"Eh, dear! It's all very nice, I daresay," replied Maggie,

who was quite her best side out, "but I couldn't do it. To-
morrow 'll be Sunday, and Saturday night's the busiest in
the week, with six of 'em to tub, and ever so many things to
do beside."

"Well, missis, I'm glad you see to keeping their little

bodies clean and wholesome. It would be a good job if
every house we'd looked into were as tidy as yours is. Folks
say, 'Cleanliness is next to godliness,' but it don't do to stop
at the cleanliness, does it, mate?"

The other man said, "No, that would be a bad lookout,"

and, turning to Adam, "Will you come along with us,
mister?"

Adam shook his head, and Maggie said, "Thank you,

we've both enough to do for to-night."

"Well, then, I'll just leave you this little paper. It will tell
you all about the mission services. Time and place, and
preacher, and everything. If you go to a church or chapel
regular, I don't ask you to give up your own service for this.
But if you don't happen to be fixed, look in at our place to-
morrow. You're safe to have time, and you too, missis,
when you have your Saturday's work done so early, and
your kitchen floor so as one might eat one's dinner off it."

There was no being angry with such good-tempered,

pleasant-spoken visitors. So Maggie took the little handbill
and thanked them for it, saying, they would "see about it."

Not that either Adam or his wife had the smallest

intention of going near the Mission Room, but they would
not say so. They only wanted to rid themselves of their
callers in a civil way, and without giving offence by a direct
refusal.

So when, after a kindly "good night," the door closed

behind the men, they considered they had done with them
and their errand also.

But they were mistaken.

CHAPTER VIII.
CALLERS AND COGITATIONS.

MR. KENNEDY, the mission preacher, had found out long

before his visit to Millborough that those who would rouse
spiritual sleepers to anxiety about the well-being of their
souls, must carry the gospel invitation to their very doors.
For this work messengers were needed. Moreover, these
required special qualifications. The message must be
lovingly delivered by persons who had themselves
experienced its importance and knew its preciousness.

There were doubtless many such who were longing to

be of use, and willing to carry it into the dark lanes and
alleys of Millborough; but mere willingness was not enough,
neither was the experimental knowledge alluded to. Both
these things were indispensable, but more was wanted.
There must be love for the souls of others, as well as
thankfulness for personal salvation. There must be
readiness of speech, pleasant looks and manners that would
manifest good-will and bespeak a hearing, courage that
would not fail under difficulties and disagreeables, and the
charity that "suffereth long and is kind, seeketh not her
own, is not easily provoked."
 There were a few such, and the two that called at Adam
Livesey's door were of the number. They were of the sort to
whom the roughest found it hard to give a rude reply.

When tea was over, Adam took up the little handbill left
by the visitors, and read what was printed thereon.

"Why?" he exclaimed. "This preacher must be the one

Mr. Drummond told me about. The name is Kennedy, the
room is in Aqueduct Street. They're having meetings all
next week, beside to-morrow and the Sunday after."

"They're welcome to have 'em for a month o' Sundays

for me," said Maggie, promptly. "I've enough to do without
going to such places. How would the dinner be got ready,
and the house cleaned, and the washing done, to say
nothing of the children being seen to, if I were to be
running off to meetings morn, noon, and night, as some of
'em do?

"There's Mrs. Jackson, she goes to some meeting or

another nearly every day, and she's always talking about
her soul, while she's neglecting her home and her
husband's body. It's a good job she has no children, but
poor George came home this very day just before you did.
The house was all in a litter, dinner things on the table, fire
out, and no kettle a-boil. I believe she was off to this very
room in Aqueduct Street. Poor George came across here
with a little teapot in his hand, to beg a drop of boiling
water, because he had to go back, and would be working till
eleven."

"New boiler," jerked in Adam. "Rutherford's made it."

"Yes, he said so. And there he had to sit down in that

kitchen, with everything on heaps, and drink his drop of tea
and eat his bread with hardly a scrape o' butter. She hadn't
had time to buy any before she went off to the meeting. He
left his wages for me to give her, all but a shilling, and I was
to tell her he would be late, and he would get a threepenny
pie for his supper. He gets half as much more wages as you
do, Adam, and not a bit o' comfort out of them, though
there's only two to keep."

Adam shook his head in sorrowful sympathy, remarking,

"George is a skilled mechanic. He gets twice what I do, as a
regular thing."

"More shame for Sarah Jackson to serve him as she

does. If you'd been at home, you should have asked him to
bring his tea and have it here."

"You might ha' asked him, Maggie."

"Not I," she returned, with some severity of speech.

"You don't catch me having other folk's husbands here
unless their wives are with 'em, or you are at home. I don't
believe in giving gossiping tongues anything to talk about. I
took George Jackson's key and the money from him on the
doorstep, and when Sarah came, I passed them on to her. I
did not ask her in, any more than her husband. I can tell
you, Adam, if that woman had begun talking about her
'beautiful meeting,' I should have said something to her
that wouldn't have sounded very beautiful, so I cut her off
short."

Maggie did not trouble herself to wait for any comment

from Adam, but bustled off to begin her preparations for the
"tubbing process," which would take some time. Her
husband's thoughts were, however, busy enough, though
they did not find vent in words.

Adam had often heard his wife rail against Sarah

Jackson, who was to be found, as a rule, anywhere but by
her own fireside. He had heard her speak of other women
too, who went from meeting to meeting, "for the sake of
what they could get." Maggie believed they had no better
motive than to meet with neighbours in the class-rooms, to
pass an idle hour or two, to gossip on the road, to be
brought into company with ladies, and be made pets of by
them. There were many attractions in connection with such
gatherings, and Mrs. Livesey's firm conviction was, that
some of her neighbours put up with the Bible readings and
lecturings, because of sundry substantial helps, and the
annual trips and tea-meetings.

No doubt she was right in her judgment in a few cases.

She saw some who never seemed to be the better for what
they were taught, and who made attendance at various
religious ordinances an excuse for the neglect of their
homes and families. Her standing sample of the class was
her near neighbour, Sarah Jackson, and she regarded her
with unmeasured contempt.

"If that woman was worth her salt, she'd have her
house like a little palace, and save a fortune out of what he
gives her! It's a wonder the man's alive, the way he has to
scramble for his meals," Maggie would say, as she looked
with pardonable pride on her own surroundings.

These sayings were, however, all reserved for Adam's

ear, not proclaimed from the threshold or to her neighbours.

"They can see for themselves, without me telling them.

Besides, there's George to think about. He has enough on
his mind without any dinning from outside."

It was Maggie's misfortune that she should have been

brought into contact with a sham Christian instead of a real
one, an idle, who had learned the letter of the gospel
message, but whose heart and life had not been reached by
it. Maggie knew, for others had told her, that Sarah Jackson
had been heard to express regrets at Mrs. Livesey's
darkness and hardness of heart. As in duty bound, she had
invited her to many "means of grace," and offered to be her
companion, but always in vain.

No wonder Maggie regarded Mrs. Jackson's invitations

as uncalled-for meddling, and an insult to her own common
sense. At each renewal she would say to Adam, "That
hypocrite's been at me again, but I think I've settled her for
a bit. I was cleaning my windows when she began at me,
and I looked straight at hers, that you can't see through for
dirt, and said I didn't know how she found time. I had to be
on the go all the while, to keep straight. I shouldn't like my
windows to be made up so that if I wanted to see who was
passing, I must come outside. Then I came in and shut the
door."

In spite, however, of all this talk on Maggie's part, and

the fact that Mrs. Jackson's example had done both
husband and wife harm, Adam was not satisfied that it was
fair to judge by one only.

Every person, whether man or woman, who talks glibly

about religion, the soul's need, and the Saviour's all-
sufficiency, without showing a life influenced and purified by
the spiritual experience spoken of, must cause the enemies
of the gospel to triumph, and the doubter or indifferent to
remain so. But, while Adam listened to Maggie, it was only
in a half-hearted way.

He thought of the two men whose pleasant words and

manners had left a favourable impression, along with the
printed handbill. He remembered words uttered by that old
workman at Rutherford's, who had long been a professed