“To-day,” said the curate, “we shall praise God with the mirth of the good old hundredth psalm, and not with the fear of the more modern version.”

As he spoke he bent to his oars, and through a narrow lane the boat soon shot into Pine-street—­now a wide canal, banked with houses dreary and dead, save where, from an upper window, peeped out here and there a sleepy, dismayed countenance.  In silence, except for the sounds of the oars, and the dull rush of water everywhere, they slipped along.

“This is fun!” said Helen, where she sat and steered.

“Very quiet fun as yet,” answered the curate.  “But it will get faster by and by.”

As often as he saw any one at a window, he called out that tea and coffee would be wanted for many a poor creature’s breakfast.  But here they were all big houses, and he rowed swiftly past them, for his business lay, not where there were servants and well-stocked larders, but where there were mothers and children and old people, and little but water besides.  Nor had they left Pine street by many houses before they came where help was right welcome.  Down the first turning a miserable cottage stood three feet deep in the water.  Out jumped the curate with the painter in his hand, and opened the door.

On the bed, over the edge of which the water was lapping, sat a sickly young woman in her night-dress, holding her baby to her bosom.  She stared for a moment with big eyes, then looked down, and said nothing; but a rose-tinge mounted from her heart to her pale cheek.

“Good morning, Martha!” said the curate cheerily.  “Rather damp—­ain’t it?  Where’s your husband?”

“Away looking for work, sir,” answered Martha, in a hopeless tone.

“Then he won’t miss you.  Come along.  Give me the baby.”

“I can’t come like this, sir.  I ain’t got no clothes on.”

“Take them with you.  You can’t put them on:  they’re all wet.  Mrs. Wingfold is in the boat:  she’ll see to every thing you want.  The door’s hardly wide enough to let the boat through, or I’d pull it close up to the bed for you to get in.”

She hesitated.

“Come along,” he repeated.  “I won’t look at you.  Or wait—­I’ll take the baby, and come back for you.  Then you won’t get so wet.”

He took the baby from her arms, and turned to the door.

“It ain’t you as I mind, sir,” said Martha, getting into the water at once and following him, “—­no more’n my own people; but all the town’ll be at the windows by this time.”

“Never mind; we’ll see to you,” he returned.

In half a minute more, with the help of the windowsill, she was in the boat, the fur-cloak wrapped about her and the baby, drinking the first cup of the hot coffee.

“We must take her home at once,” said the curate.

“You said we should have fun!” said Helen, the tears rushing into her eyes.

She had left the tiller, and, while the mother drank her coffee, was patting the baby under the cloak.  But she had to betake herself to the tiller again, for the curate was not rowing straight.