At that moment the woman in black rose; she was young, with a proud, fair, but weary face.  Her eyes lighted on her soiled and poverty-stricken sister, and she paused with a pitying look.  The street wanderer made use of the opportunity thus offered, and in an urgent whisper implored charity.  The lady drew out a purse, then hesitated, looking wistfully at the bundle in the shawl.

“You have a child there?” she asked, in gentle accents.  “May I see it?”

“Yes, lady,” and the wrapper was turned down sufficiently to disclose the tiny white face, now more infinitely touching than ever in the pathos of sleep.

“I lost my little one a week ago,” said the lady, simply, as she looked at it.  “He was all I had.”  Her voice trembled; she opened her purse, and placed a half-crown in the hand of her astonished supplicant.  “You are happier than I am; perhaps you will pray for me.  I am very lonely!”

Then dropping her long crape veil so that it completely hid her features, she bent her head and moved softly away.  The woman watched her till her graceful figure was completely lost in the gloom of the great church, and then turned again vaguely to the altar.

“Pray for her!” she thought.  “I!  As if I could pray!” And she smiled bitterly.  Again she looked at the statue in the shrine; it had no meaning at all for her.  She had never heard of Christianity save through the medium of a tract, whose consoling title had been “Stop!  You are Going to Hell!” Religion of every sort was mocked at by those among whom her lot was cast, the name of Christ was only used as a convenience to swear by, and therefore this mysterious, smiling, gently inviting marble figure was incomprehensible to her mind.

“As if I could pray!” she repeated, with a sort of derision.  Then she looked at the broad silver coin in her hand and the sleeping baby in her arms.  With a sudden impulse she dropped on her knees.

“Whoever you are,” she muttered, addressing the statue above her, “it seems you’ve got a child of your own; perhaps you’ll help me to take care of this one.  It isn’t mine; I wish it was!  Anyway, I love it more than its own mother does.  I dare say you won’t listen to the likes of me, but if there was God anywhere about I’d ask Him to bless that good soul that’s lost her baby.  I bless her with all my heart, but my blessing ain’t good for much.  Ah!” and she surveyed anew the Virgin’s serene white countenance, “you just look as if you understood me; but I don’t believe you do.  Never mind, I’ve said all I wanted to say this time.”

Her strange petition, or rather discourse, concluded, she rose and walked away.  The great doors of the church swung heavily behind her as she stepped out and stood once more in the muddy street.  It was raining steadily—­a fine, cold, penetrating rain.  But the coin she held was a talisman against outer discomforts, and she continued to walk on till she came to a clean-looking dairy, where for a couple