X. RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL.
"My heart, once soft as woman's tear, is gnarled With gloating on the ills I cannot cure." --ELLIOTT.
"Then guard and shield her innocence, Let her not fall like me; 'T were better, oh! a thousand times, She in her grave should be." --The Outcast.
Despair settled down like a heavy cloud; and now and then, throughthe dead calm of sufferings, came pipings of stormy winds,foretelling the end of these dark prognostics. In times ofsorrowful or fierce endurance, we are often soothed by the mererepetition of old proverbs which tell the experience of ourforefathers; but now, "it's a long lane that has no turning," "theweariest day draws to an end," etc., seemed false and vain sayings,so long and so weary was the pressure of the terrible times. Deeperand deeper still sank the poor. It showed how much lingeringsuffering it takes to kill men, that so few (in comparison) diedduring those times. But remember! we only miss those who do men'swork in their humble sphere; the aged, the feeble, the children,when they die, are hardly noted by the world; and yet to manyhearts, their deaths make a blank which long years will never fillup. Remember, too, that though it may take much suffering to killthe able-bodied and effective members of society, it does NOT takemuch to reduce them to worn, listless, diseased creatures, whothenceforward crawl through life with moody hearts and pain-strickenbodies.
The people had thought the poverty of the preceding years hard tobear, and had found its yoke heavy; but this year added sorely toits weight. Former times had chastised them with whips, but thischastised them with scorpions.
Of course, Barton had his share of mere bodily sufferings. Beforehe had gone up to London on his vain errand, he had been workingshort time. But in the hopes of speedy redress by means of theinterference of Parliament, he had thrown up his place; and now,when he asked leave to resume his work, he was told they werediminishing their number of hands every week, and he was made aware,by the remarks of fellow-workmen, that a Chartist delegate, and aleading member of a Trades' Union, was not likely to be favoured inhis search after employment. Still he tried to keep up a braveheart concerning himself. He knew he could bear hunger; for thatpower of endurance had been called forth when he was a little child,and had seen his mother hide her daily morsel to share it among herchildren, and when he, being the eldest, had told the noble lie,that "he was not hungry, could not eat a bit more," in order toimitate his mother's bravery, and still the sharp wail of theyounger infants. Mary, too, was secure of two meals a day at MissSimmonds'; though, by the way, the dressmaker too, feeling theeffect of bad times, had left off giving tea to her apprentices,setting them the example of long abstinence by putting off her ownmeal till work was done for the night, however late that might be.
But the rent! It was half-a-crown a week--nearly all Mary'searnings--and much less room might do for them, only two.--(Now camethe time to be thankful that the early dead were saved from the evilto come.)--The agricultural labourer generally has strong localattachments; but they are far less common, almost obliterated, amongthe inhabitants of a town. Still there are exceptions, and Bartonformed one. He had removed to his present house just after the lastbad times, when little Tom had sickened and died. He had thenthought the bustle of a removal would give his poor stunned wifesomething to do, and he had taken more interest in the details ofthe proceeding than he otherwise would have done, in the hope ofcalling her forth to action again. So he seemed to know everybrass-headed nail driven up for her convenience. Only one had beendisplaced. It was Esther's bonnet nail, which in his deeprevengeful anger against her, after his wife's death, he had tornout of the wall, and cast into the street. It would be hard work toleave the house, which yet seemed hallowed by his wife's presence inthe happy days of old. But he was a law unto himself, thoughsometimes a bad, fierce law; and he resolved to give therent-collector notice, and look out for a cheaper abode, and tellMary they must flit. Poor Mary! she loved the house, too. It waswrenching up her natural feelings of home, for it would be longbefore the fibres of her heart would gather themselves about anotherplace.
This trial was spared. The collector (of himself), on the veryMonday when Barton planned to give him notice of his intention toleave, lowered the rent threepence a week, just enough to makeBarton compromise and agree to stay on a little longer.
But by degrees the house was stripped of all its little ornaments.Some were broken; and the odd twopences and threepences, wanted topay for their repairs, were required for the far sterner necessityof food. And by-and-bye Mary began to part with other superfluitiesat the pawn-shop. The smart tea-tray and tea-caddy, long andcarefully kept, went for bread for her father. He did not ask forit, or complain, but she saw hunger in his shrunk, fierce, animallook. Then the blankets went, for it was summer time, and theycould spare them; and their sale made a fund, which Mary fanciedwould last till better times came. But it was soon all gone; andthen she looked around the room to crib it of its few remainingornaments. To all these proceedings her father said never a word.If he fasted, or feasted (after the sale of some article) on anunusual meal of bread and cheese, he took all with a sullenindifference, which depressed Mary's heart. She often wished hewould apply for relief from the Guardians' relieving office; oftenwondered the Trades' Union did nothing for him. Once, when sheasked him as he sat, grimed, unshaven, and gaunt, after a day'sfasting, over the fire, why he did not get relief from the town, heturned round, with grim wrath, and said, "I don't want money, child!D--n their charity and their money! I want work, and it is myright. I want work."
He would bear it all, he said to himself. And he did bear it, butnot meekly; that was too much to expect. Real meekness of characteris called out by experience of kindness. And few had been kind tohim. Yet through it all, with stern determination he refused theassistance his Trades' Union would have given him. It had not muchto give, but, with worldly wisdom, thought it better to propitiatean active, useful member, than to help those who were moreunenergetic, though they had large families to provide for. Not sothought John Barton. With him, need was right.
"Give it to Tom Darbyshire," he said. "He's more claim on it thanme, for he's more need of it, with his seven children."
Now Tom Darbyshire was, in his listless, grumbling way, a back-biting enemy of John Barton's. And he knew it; but he was not to beinfluenced by that in a matter like this.
Mary went early to her work; but her cheery laugh over it was nowmissed by the other girls. Her mind wandered over the presentdistress, and then settled, as she stitched, on the visions of thefuture, where yet her thoughts dwelt more on the circumstances ofease, and the pomps and vanities awaiting her, than on the loverwith whom she was to share them. Still she was not insensible tothe pride of having attracted one so far above herself in stationnot insensible to the secret pleasure of knowing that he, whom somany admired, had often said he would give anything for one of hersweet smiles. Her love for him was a bubble, blown out of vanity;but it looked very real and very bright. Sally Leadbitter,meanwhile, keenly observed the signs of the times; she found outthat Mary had begun to affix a stern value to money as the"Purchaser of Life," and many girls had been dazzled and lured bygold, even without the betraying love which she believed to exist inMary's heart. So she urged young Mr. Carson, by representations ofthe want she was sure surrounded Mary, to bring matters more to apoint. But he had a kind of instinctive dread of hurting Mary'spride of spirit, and durst not hint his knowledge in any way of thedistress that many must be enduring. He felt that for the presenthe must still be content with stolen meetings and summer eveningstrolls, and the delight of pouring sweet honeyed words into herear, while she listened with a blush and a smile that made her lookradiant with beauty. No; he would be cautious in order to becertain; for Mary, one way or another, he must make his. He had nodoubt of the effect of his own personal charms in the long run; forhe knew he was handsom
e, and believed himself fascinating.
If he had known what Mary's home was, he would not have been so muchconvinced of his increasing influence over her, by her being moreand more ready to linger with him in the sweet summer air. For whenshe returned for the night her father was often out, and the housewanted the cheerful look it had had in the days when money was neverwanted to purchase soap and brushes, black-lead and pipe-clay. Itwas dingy and comfortless; for, of course, there was not even thedumb familiar home-friend, a fire. And Margaret, too, was now veryoften from home, singing at some of those grand places. And Alice;oh, Mary wished she had never left her cellar to go and live atAncoats with her sister-in-law. For in that matter Mary felt veryguilty; she had put off and put off going to see the widow, afterGeorge Wilson's death, from dread of meeting Jem, or giving himreason to think she wished to be as intimate with him as formerly;and now she was so much ashamed of her delay that she was likelynever to go at all.
If her father was at home it was no better; indeed, it was worse.He seldom spoke, less than ever; and often when he did speak, theywere sharp angry words, such as he had never given her formerly.Her temper was high, too, and her answers not over mild; and once inhis passion he had even beaten her. If Sally Leadbitter or Mr.Carson had been at hand at that moment, Mary would have been readyto leave home for ever. She sat alone, after her father had flungout of the house, bitterly thinking on the days that were gone;angry with her own hastiness, and believing that her father did notlove her; striving to heap up one painful thought on another. Whocared for her? Mr. Carson might, but in this grief that seemed nocomfort. Mother dead! Father so often angry, so lately cruel (forit was a hard blow, and blistered and reddened Mary's soft whiteskin with pain): and then her heart turned round, and sheremembered with self-reproach how provokingly she had looked andspoken, and how much her father had to bear; and oh, what a kind andloving parent he had been, till these days of trial. Theremembrance of one little instance of his fatherly love throngedafter another into her mind, and she began to wonder how she couldhave behaved to him as she had done.
Then he came home; and but for very shame she would have confessedher penitence in words. But she looked sullen, from her effort tokeep down emotion and for some time her father did not know how tobegin to speak. At length he gulped down pride, and said--
"Mary, I'm not above saying I'm very sorry I beat thee. Thou wert abit aggravating, and I'm not the man I was. But it were wrong, andI'll try never to lay hands on thee again."
So he held out his arms, and in many tears she told him herrepentance for her fault. He never struck her again.
Still, he often was angry. But that was almost better than beingsilent. Then he sat near the fireplace (from habit) smoking, orchewing opium. Oh, how Mary loathed that smell! And in the dusk,just before it merged into the short summer night, she had learnedto look with dread towards the window, which now her father wouldhave kept uncurtained: for there were not seldom seen sights whichhaunted her in her dreams. Strange faces of pale men, with darkglaring eyes, peered into the inner darkness, and seemed desirous toascertain if her father was at home. Or, a hand and arm (the bodyhidden) was put within the door, and beckoned him away. He alwayswent. And once or twice, when Mary was in bed, she heard men'svoices below, in earnest, whispered talk.
They were all desperate members of Trades' Unions, ready foranything; made ready by want.
While all this change for gloom yet struck fresh and heavy on Mary'sheart, her father startled her out of a reverie one evening, byasking her when she had been to see Jane Wilson. From his manner ofspeaking, she was made aware that he had been; but at the time ofhis visit he had never mentioned anything about it. Now, however,he gruffly told her to go next day without fail, and added someabuse of her for not having been before. The little outward impulseof her father's speech gave Mary the push which she in this instancerequired; and accordingly, timing her visit so as to avoid Jem'shours at home, she went the following afternoon to Ancoats.
The outside of the well-known house struck her as different; for thedoor was closed, instead of open, as it once had always stood. Thewindow-plants, George Wilson's pride and especial care, lookedwithering and drooping. They had been without water for a longtime, and now, when the widow had reproached herself severely forneglect, in her ignorant anxiety she gave them too much. On openingthe door, Alice was seen, not stirring about in her habitual way,but knitting by the fireside. The room felt hot, although the fireburnt grey and dim, under the bright rays of the afternoon sun.Mrs. Wilson was "siding"* the dinner things, and talking all thetime, in a kind of whining, shouting voice, which Mary did not atfirst understand. She understood, at once, however, that herabsence had been noted, and talked over; she saw a constrained lookon Mrs. Wilson's sorrow-stricken face, which told her a scolding wasto come.
*To "side," to put aside, or in order.
"Dear! Mary, is that you?" she began. "Why, who would ha' dreamtof seeing you! We thought you'd clean forgotten us; and Jem hasoften wondered if he should know you, if he met you in the street."
Now, poor Jane Wilson had been sorely tried; and at present hertrials had had no outward effect, but that of increased acerbity oftemper. She wished to show Mary how much she was offended, andmeant to strengthen her cause, by putting some of her own sharpspeeches into Jem's mouth.
Mary felt guilty, and had no good reason to give as an apology; sofor a minute she stood silent, looking very much ashamed, and thenturned to speak to Aunt Alice, who, in her surprised, heartygreeting to Mary, had dropped her ball of worsted, and was busy,trying to set the thread to rights, before the kitten had entangledit past redemption, once round every chair, and twice round thetable.
"You mun speak louder than that, if you mean her to hear; she'sbecome as deaf as a post this last few weeks. I'd ha' told you, ifI'd remembered how long it were sin' you'd seen her."
"Yes, my dear, I'm getting very hard o' hearing of late," saidAlice, catching the state of the case, with her quick glancing eyes."I suppose it's the beginning of the end."
"Don't talk o' that way," screamed her sister-in-law. "We've hadenow of ends and deaths without forecasting more." She covered herface with her apron, and sat down to cry.
"He was such a good husband," said she, in a less excited tone, toMary, as she looked up with tear-streaming eyes from behind herapron. "No one can tell what I've lost in him, for no one knew hisworth like me."
Mary's listening sympathy softened her, and she went on to unburdenher heavy-laden heart.
"Eh, dear, dear! No one knows what I've lost. When my poor boyswent, I thought the Almighty had crushed me to th' ground, but Inever thought o' losing George; I did na think I could ha' borne toha' lived without him. And yet I'm here, and he's"--A fresh burstof crying interrupted her speech.
"Mary,"--beginning to speak again,--"did you ever hear what a poorcreature I were when he married me? And he such a handsome fellow!Jem's nothing to what his father were at his age."
Yes! Mary had heard, and so she said. But the poor woman's thoughtshad gone back to those days, and her little recollections came out,with many interruptions of sighs, and tears, and shakes of the head.
"There were nought about me for him to choose me. I were just wellenough afore that accident, but at after I were downright plain.And there was Bessy Witter as would ha' given her eyes for him; sheas is Mrs. Carson now, for she were a handsome lass, although Inever could see her beauty then; and Carson warn't so much aboveher, as they're both above us all now."
Mary went very red, and wished she could help doing so, and wishedalso that Mrs. Wilson would tell her more about the father andmother of her lover; but she durst not ask, and Mrs. Wilson'sthoughts soon returned to her husband, and their early married days.
"If you'll believe me, Mary, there never was such a born goose athousekeeping as I were; and yet he married me! I had been in afactory sin' five years old a'most, and I knew nought aboutcleaning, or co
oking, let alone washing and such like work. The dayafter we were married, he went to his work at after breakfast, andsays he, 'Jenny, we'll ha' th' cold beef, and potatoes, and that's adinner for a prince.' I were anxious to make him comfortable, Godknows how anxious. And yet I'd no notion how to cook a potato. Iknow'd they were boiled, and know'd their skins were taken off, andthat were all. So I tidied my house in a rough kind o' way, then Ilooked at that very clock up yonder,"--pointing at one that hungagainst the wall--"and I seed it were nine o'clock, so, thinks I,th' potatoes shall be well boiled at any rate, and I gets 'em on th'fire in a jiffy (that's to say, as soon as I could peel 'em, whichwere a tough job at first), and then I fell to unpacking my boxes!and at twenty minutes past twelve, he comes home, and I had the beefready on th' table, and I went to take the potatoes out o' th' pot;but oh! Mary, th' water had boiled away, and they were all a nastybrown mess, as smelt through all the house. He said nought, andwere very gentle; but oh! Mary, I cried so that afternoon. I shallne'er forget it; no, never. I made many a blunder at after, butnone that fretted me like that."
"Father does not like girls to work in factories," said Mary.
"No, I know he does not; and reason good. They oughtn't to go atafter they're married, that I'm very clear about. I could reckonup,"--counting with her finger--"ay, nine men, I know, as has beendriven to th' public-house by having wives as worked in factories;good folk, too, as thought there was no harm in putting their littleones out to nurse, and letting their house go all dirty, and theirfires all out; and that was a place as was tempting for a husband tostay in, was it? He soon finds out gin-shops, where all is cleanand bright, and where th' fire blazes cheerily, and gives a man awelcome as it were."
Alice, who was standing near for the convenience of hearing, hadcaught much of this speech, and it was evident the subject hadpreviously been discussed by the women, for she chimed in.
"I wish our Jem could speak a word to th' Queen, about factory workfor married women. Eh! but he comes it strong when once yo get himto speak about it. Wife o' his'n will never work away fra' home."
"I say it's Prince Albert as ought to be asked how he'd like hismissis to be from home when he comes in, tired and worn, and wantingsome one to cheer him; and maybe, her to come in by-and-bye, just astired and down in th' mouth; and how he'd like for her never to beat home to see to th' cleaning of his house, or to keep a brightfire in his grate. Let alone his meals being all hugger-mugger andcomfortless. I'd be bound, prince as he is, if his missis servedhim so, he'd be off to a gin-palace, or summut o' that kind. So whycan't he make a law again poor folks' wives working in factories?"
Mary ventured to say that she thought the Queen and Prince Albertcould not make laws, but the answer was--
"Pooh! don't tell me it's not the Queen as makes laws; and isn't shebound to obey Prince Albert? And if he said they mustn't, why she'dsay they mustn't, and then all folk would say, oh, no, we nevershall do any such thing no more."
"Jem's getten on rarely," said Alice, who had not heard her sister'slast burst of eloquence, and whose thoughts were still running onher nephew, and his various talents. "He's found out summut about acrank or tank, I forget rightly which it is, but th' master's madehim foreman, and he all the while turning off hands; but he said hecould na part wi' Jem, nohow. He's good wage now; I tell him he'llbe thinking of marrying soon, and he deserves a right down goodwife, that he does."
Mary went very red, and looked annoyed, although there was a secretspring of joy deep down in her heart, at hearing Jem so spoken of.But his mother only saw the annoyed look, and was piquedaccordingly. She was not over and above desirous that her sonshould marry. His presence in the house seemed a relic of happiertimes, and she had some little jealousy of his future wife, whoevershe might be. Still she could not bear any one not to feelgratified and flattered by Jem's preference, and full well she knewhow above all others he preferred Mary. Now she had never thoughtMary good enough for Jem, and her late neglect in coming to see herstill rankled a little in her breast. So she determined to invent alittle, in order to do away with any idea Mary might have that Jemwould choose her for "his right down good wife," as Aunt Alicecalled it.
"Ay, he'll be for taking a wife soon," and then, in a lower voice,as if confidentially, but really to prevent any contradiction orexplanation from her simple sister-in-law, she added--
"It'll not be long afore Molly Gibson (that's her at th' provisionshop round the corner) will hear a secret as will not displease her,I'm thinking. She's been casting sheep's eyes at our Jem this manya day, but he thought her father would not give her to a commonworking-man; but now he's good as her, every bit. I thought oncehe'd a fancy for thee, Mary, but I donnot think yo'd ever ha'suited, so it's best as it is."
By an effort Mary managed to keep down her vexation, and to say,"She hoped he'd be happy with Molly Gibson. She was very handsome,for certain."
"Ay, and a notable body, too. I'll just step upstairs and show youthe patchwork quilt she gave me but last Saturday."
Mary was glad she was going out of the room. Her words irritatedher; perhaps not the less because she did not fully believe them.Besides, she wanted to speak to Alice, and Mrs. Wilson seemed tothink that she, as the widow, ought to absorb all the attention.
"Dear Alice," began Mary, "I'm so grieved to find you so deaf; itmust have come on very rapid."
"Yes, dear, it's a trial; I'll not deny it. Pray God give mestrength to find out its teaching. I felt it sore one fine day whenI thought I'd go gather some meadow-sweet to make tea for Jane'scough; and the fields seemed so dree and still, and at first I couldna make out what was wanting; and then it struck me it were th' songo' the birds, and that I never should hear their sweet music nomore, and I could na help crying a bit. But I've much to bethankful for. I think I'm a comfort to Jane, if I'm only some oneto scold now and then; poor body! It takes off her thoughts fromher sore losses when she can scold a bit. If my eyes are left I cando well enough; I can guess at what folk are saying."
The splendid red and yellow patch quilt now made its appearance, andJane Wilson would not be satisfied unless Mary praised it all over,border, centre, and ground-work, right side and wrong; and Mary didher duty, saying all the more, because she could not work herself upto any very hearty admiration of her rival's present. She madehaste, however, with her commendations, in order to avoidencountering Jem. As soon as she was fairly away from the house andstreet, she slackened her pace, and began to think. Did Jem reallycare for Molly Gibson? Well, if he did, let him. People seemed allto think he was much too good for her (Mary's own self). Perhapssome one else, far more handsome, and far more grand, would show himone day that she was good enough to be Mrs. Henry Carson. Sotemper, or what Mary called "spirit," led her to encourage Mr.Carson more than ever she had done before.
Some weeks after this there was a meeting of the Trades' Union towhich John Barton belonged. The morning of the day on which it wasto take place he had lain late in bed, for what was the use ofgetting up? He had hesitated between the purchase of meal or opium,and had chosen the latter, for its use had become a necessity withhim. He wanted it to relieve him from the terrible depression itsabsence occasioned. A large lump seemed only to bring him into anatural state, or what had been his natural state formerly. Eighto'clock was the hour fixed for the meeting; and at it were readletters, filled with details of woe, from all parts of the country.Fierce, heavy gloom brooded over the assembly; and fiercely andheavily did the men separate, towards eleven o'clock, some irritatedby the opposition of others to their desperate plans.
It was not a night to cheer them, as they quitted the glare of thegas-lighted room, and came out into the street. Unceasing, soakingrain was falling; the very lamps seemed obscured by the damp uponthe glass, and their light reached but to a little distance from theposts. The streets were cleared of passers-by; not a creatureseemed stirring, except here and there a drenched policeman in hisoilskin cape. Barton wished the oth
ers good-night, and set offhome. He had gone through a street or two, when he heard a stepbehind him; but he did not care to stop and see who it was. Alittle further, and the person quickened step, and touched his armvery lightly. He turned, and saw, even by the darkness visible ofthat badly-lighted street, that the woman who stood by him was of nodoubtful profession. It was told by her faded finery, all unfit tomeet the pelting of that pitiless storm; the gauze bonnet, oncepink, now dirty white; the muslin gown, all draggled, and soakingwet up to the very knees; the gay-coloured barege shawl, closelywrapped round the form, which yet shivered and shook, as the womanwhispered, "I want to speak to you."
He swore an oath, and bade her begone.
"I really do. Don't send me away. I'm so out of breath, I cannotsay what I would all at once." She put her hand to her side, andcaught her breath with evident pain.
"I tell thee I'm not the man for thee," adding an opprobrious name."Stay," said he, as a thought suggested by her voice flashed acrosshim. He gripped her arm--the arm he had just before shaken off--anddragged her, faintly resisting, to the nearest lamp-post. He pushedthe bonnet back, and roughly held the face she would fain haveaverted, to the light, and in her large, unnaturally bright greyeyes, her lovely mouth, half open, as if imploring the forbearanceshe could not ask for in words, he saw at once the long-lost Esther;she who had caused his wife's death. Much was like the gay creatureof former years; but the glaring paint, the sharp features, thechanged expression of the whole! But most of all, he loathed thedress; and yet the poor thing, out of her little choice of attire,had put on the plainest she had, to come on that night's errand.
"So it's thee, is it? It's thee!" exclaimed John, as he ground histeeth, and shook her with passion. "I've looked for thee long atcorners o' streets, and such like places. I knew I should find theeat last. Thee'll maybe bethink thee o' some words I spoke, whichput thee up at th' time; summut about street-walkers; but oh no!thou art none o' them naughts; no one thinks thou art, who sees thyfine draggle-tailed dress, and thy pretty pink cheeks!" stopping forvery want of breath.
"Oh, mercy! John, mercy! listen to me for Mary's sake!"
She meant his daughter, but the name only fell on his ear asbelonging to his wife; and it was adding fuel to the fire. In vaindid her face grow deadly pale around the vivid circle of paint, invain did she gasp for mercy,--he burst forth again.
"And thou names that name to me? and thou thinks the thought of herwill bring thee mercy! Dost thou know it was thee who killed her,as sure as ever Cain killed Abel. She'd loved thee as her own, andshe trusted thee as her own, and when thou wert gone she never heldhead up again, but died in less than a three week; and at herjudgment-day she'll rise, and point to thee as her murderer; or ifshe don't, I will."
He flung her, trembling, sinking, fainting, from him, and strodeaway. She fell with a feeble scream against the lamp-post, and laythere in her weakness, unable to rise. A policeman came up in timeto see the close of these occurrences, and concluding from Esther'sunsteady, reeling fall, that she was tipsy, he took her in her half-unconscious state to the lock-ups for the night. The superintendentof that abode of vice and misery was roused from his dozing watchthrough the dark hours, by half-delirious wails and moanings, whichhe reported as arising from intoxication. If he had listened, hewould have heard these words, repeated in various forms, but alwaysin the same anxious, muttering way--
"He would not listen to me; what can I do? He would not listen tome, and I wanted to warn him! Oh, what shall I do to save Mary'schild! What shall I do? How can I keep her from being such a oneas I am; such a wretched, loathsome creature! She was listeningjust as I listened, and loving just as I loved, and the end will bejust like my end. How shall I save her? She won't hearken towarning, or heed it more than I did: and who loves her well enoughto watch over her as she should be watched? God keep her from harm!And yet I won't pray for her; sinner that I am! Can my prayers beheard? No! they'll only do harm. How shall I save her? He wouldnot listen to me."
So the night wore away. The next morning she was taken up to theNew Bailey. It was a clear case of disorderly vagrancy, and she wascommitted to prison for a month. How much might happen in thattime!