kept me wanting to run home. I said to myself, "What a fool you are, why don't you feed him? nobody can be good when they are hungry."
How much we talk about the wickedness of the poor. But it's of no use trying to make them better; no use to talk to them about their souls, till we wash, and feed, and clothe their bodies. The wants of the body are an unforgotten fact, ever present. But the broth will get cold ; so I'll feed this sad old man, and go. I ask him to take it, presenting the spoon, and holding the mug in the palm of my hand, with the fingers brought up over it. I am thus particular, because of his remark, over which Mr. C. has laughed heartily, and perhaps you may. The broth seemed to suit ; but all the while he kept looking at the mug, as I supposed. Presently he smiled, and then he looked as though he would cry, but said, with the faintest voice, and with quite an interval between each word, "I should like to know who it is that feeds me." I told him I was Edward's mother. But he did not understand, evidently. Indeed, everything I said seemed to break the chain of his own thoughts. Now
