“All right,” said Andy, with the self-assertion of a boy of ten.

The man stroked the child’s head and ran his fingers through his hair in a fond way; then, as one who tore himself from an object of attraction, went hastily out and locked the door.

And now was to begin a new life.  Friendless, debased, repulsive in appearance, everything about him denoting the abandoned drunkard, this man started forth to get honest bread.  Where should he go?  What could he do?  Who would give employment to an object like him?  The odds were fearfully against him—­no, not that, either.  In outward respects, fearful enough were the odds, but on the other side agencies invisible to mortal sight were organizing for his safety.  In to his purpose to lead a new life and help a poor homeless child God’s strength was flowing.  Angels were drawing near to a miserable wreck of humanity with hands outstretched to save.  All heaven was coming to the rescue.

He was shuffling along in the direction of a market-house, hoping to earn a little by carrying home baskets, when he came face to face with an old friend of his better days, a man with whom he had once held close business relations.

“Mr. Hall!” exclaimed this man in a tone of sorrowful surprise, stopping and looking at him with an expression of deepest pity on his countenance.  “This is dreadful!”

“You may well say that, Mr. Graham.  It dreadful enough.  No one knows that better than I do,” was answered, with a bitterness that his old friend felt to be genuine.

“Why, then, lead this terrible life a day longer?” asked the friend.

“I shall not lead it a day longer if God will help me,” was replied, with a genuineness of purpose that was felt by Mr. Graham.

“Give me your hand on that, Andrew Hall,” he exclaimed.  Two hands closed in a tight grip.

“Where are you going now?” inquired the friend.

“I’m in search of something to do—­something that will give me honest bread.  Look at my hand.”

He held it up.

“It shakes, you see.  I have not tasted liquor this morning.  I could have bought it, but I did not.”

“Why?”

“I said, ‘God being my helper, I will be a man again,’ and I am trying.”

“Andrew Hall,” said his old friend, solemnly, as he laid his hand on his shoulder, “if you are really in earnest—­if you do mean, in the help of God, to try—­all will be well.  But in his help alone is there any hope.  Have you seen Mr. Paulding?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“He has no faith in me.  I have deceived him too often.”

“What ground of faith is there now?” asked Mr. Graham.

“This,” was the firm but hastily spoken answer.  “Last night as I sat in the gloom of my dreary hovel, feeling so wretched that I wished I could die, a little child came in—­a poor, motherless, homeless wanderer, almost a baby—­and crept down to my heart, and he is lying there still, Mr. Graham, soft, and warm and precious, a sweet burden to bear.  I bought him a supper and a breakfast of bread and milk with the money, I had saved for drink, and now, both for his sake and mine, I am out seeking for work.  I have locked him in, so that no one can harm or carry him away while I earn enough to buy him his dinner, and maybe something better to wear, poor little homeless thing!”