none doubted the orthodoxy of her life.  Little children in darkened homes smiled as the sunlight of her presence came over their paths; reformed men looked upon her as a loving counsellor and faithful friend and sister; women wretched and sorrowful, dragged down from love and light, by the intemperance of their husbands, brought to her their heavy burdens, and by her sympathy and tender consideration she helped them bear them.  She was not rich in this world’s goods, but she was affluent in tenderness, sympathy, and love, and out of the fullness of her heart, she was a real minister of mercy among the poor and degraded.  Believing that the inner life developed the outer, she considered the poor, and strove to awaken within them self-reliance, and self-control, feeling that one of the surest ways to render people helpless or dangerous is to crush out their self-respect and self-reliance.  She thought it one of the greatest privileges of her life to be permitted to scatter flowers by the wayside of life.  Other women might write beautiful poems; she did more.  She made her life a thing of brightness and beauty.

* * * * *

“Do you think she will die?” said Belle Gordon, bending tenderly over a pale and fainting woman, whose face in spite of its attenuation showed traces of great beauty.

“Not if she is properly cared for; she has fainted from exhaustion brought on by overwork and want of proper food.”  Tears gathered in the eyes of Belle Gordon as she lifted the beautiful head upon her lap and chafed the pale hands to bring back warmth and circulation.

“Let her be removed to her home as soon as possible,” said the doctor.  “The air is too heavy and damp for her.”

“I wonder where she lives,” said Belle thoughtfully, scanning her face, as the features began to show[4] returning animation.

“Round the corner,” said an urchin, “she’s Joe Cough’s wife.  I seed her going down the street with a great big bundle, and Mam said, she looked like she was going to topple over.”

“Where is her husband?”

“I don’t know, I ’spec he’s down to Jim Green’s saloon.”

“What does he do?”

“He don’t do nothing, but Mam says she works awful hard.  Come this way,” said he with a quickness gathered by his constant contact with street life.

Up two flights of rickety stairs they carried the wasted form of Mary Gough, and laid her tenderly upon a clean but very poor bed.  In spite of her extreme poverty there was an air of neatness in the desolate room.  Belle looked around and found an old tea pot in which there were a few leaves.  There were some dry crusts in the cupboard, while two little children crouched by the embers in the grate, and cried for the mother.  Belle soon found a few coals in an old basin with which she replenished the fire, and covering up the sick woman as carefully as she could, stepped into the nearest grocery and replenished her basket with some of good the things of life.