“Show him in,” said Martin, who was not in the least surprised, for he had had much intercourse with these guardians of the public peace during the course of his unavailing search.

“I think, sir,” said the man on entering, “that we’ve got scent of an old woman w’ich is as like the one that you’re arter as hanythink.”

Martin rose in haste.  “Have you, my man?  Are you sure?”

“’Bout as sure as a man can be who never seed her.  But it won’t take you long to walk.  You’d better come and see for yourself.”

Without uttering another word, Martin put on his hat and followed the policeman.  They passed through several streets and lanes, and at length came to one of the poorest districts of the city, not far distant from the shipping.  Turning down a narrow alley, and crossing a low dirty-looking court, Martin’s guide stopped before a door, which he pushed open and mounted by a flight of rickety wooden stairs to a garret.  He opened the door and entered.

“There she is,” said the man in a tone of pity, as he pointed to a corner of the apartment, “an’ I’m afeer’d she’s goin’ fast.”

Martin stepped towards a low truckle-bed on which lay the emaciated form of a woman covered with a scanty and ragged quilt.  The corner of it was drawn across her face, and so gentle was her breathing that it seemed as if she were already dead.  Martin removed the covering, and one glance at that gentle, care-worn countenance sufficed to convince him that his old aunt lay before him!  His first impulse was to seize her in his strong arms, but another look at the frail and attenuated form caused him to shrink back in fear.

“Leave me,” he said, rising hastily and slipping half a sovereign into the policeman’s hand; “this is she.  I wish to be alone with her.”

The man touched his hat and retired, closing the door behind him; while Martin, sitting down on the bed, took one of his aunt’s thin hands in his.  The action was tenderly performed, but it awoke her.  For the first time it flashed across Martin’s mind that the sudden joy at seeing him might be too much for one so feeble as Aunt Dorothy seemed to be.  He turned his back hastily to the light, and with a violent effort suppressed his feelings while he asked how she did.

“Well, very well,” said Aunt Dorothy, in a faint voice.  “Are you the missionary that was here long ago?  Oh!  I’ve been longing for you.  Why did you not come to read to me oftener about Jesus?  But I have had Him here although you did not come.  He has been saying ’Come unto me, ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.’  Yes, I have found rest in Him.”  She ceased and seemed to fall asleep again; but in a few seconds she opened her eyes and said, “Martin, too, has been to see me; but he does not come so often now.  The darling boy used always to come to me in my dreams.  But he never brings me food.  Why does no one ever bring me food?  I am hungry.”