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right to refuse for another what you wouldn't accept for yourself。
Of course I could send in a man to do it； but if you would do it；
that would do her heart good。 And that's what most wants doing good
toisn't it； now？'
'I believe you're right there； sir。 If it wasn't for the misery of
it； I shouldn't mind the hunger。'
'I should like to tell you how I came to go poking my nose into
other people's affairs。 Would you like to hear my story now？'
'If you please； sir。'
A little pallid curiosity seemed to rouse itself in the heart of the
hopeless man。 So Falconer began at once to tell him how he had been
brought up； describing the country and their ways of life； not
excluding his adventures with Shargar； until he saw that the man was
thoroughly interested。 Then all at once； pulling out his watch； he
said；
'But it's time I had my tea； and I haven't half done yet。 I am not
fond of being hungry； like you； Mr。 De Fleuri。'
The poor fellow could only manage a very dubious smile。
'I'll tell you what；' said Falconer； as if the thought had only just
struck him'come home with me； and I'll give you the rest of it at
my own place。'
'You must excuse me； sir。'
'Bless my soul； the man's as proud as Lucifer！ He wont accept a
neighbour's invitation to a cup of teafor fear it should put him
under obligations； I suppose。'
'It's very kind of you； sir； to put it in that way； but I don't
choose to be taken in。 You know very well it's not as one equal
asks another you ask me。 It's charity。'
'Do I not behave to you as an equal？'
'But you know that don't make us equals。'
'But isn't there something better than being equals？ Supposing； as
you will have it； that we're not equals； can't we be friends？'
'I hope so； sir。'
'Do you think now； Mr。 De Fleuri； if you weren't something more to
me than a mere equal； I would go telling you my own history？ But I
forgot： I have told you hardly anything yet。 I have to tell you how
much nearer I am to your level than you think。 I had the design too
of getting you to help me in the main object of my life。 Come；
don't be a fool。 I want you。'
'I can't leave Katey；' said the weaver； hesitatingly。
'Miss St。 John is there still。 I will ask her to stop till you come
back。'
Without waiting for an answer； he ran up the stairs； and had
speedily arranged with Miss St。 John。 Then taking his consent for
granted； he hurried De Fleuri away with him； and knowing how unfit a
man of his trade was for walking； irrespective of feebleness from
want； he called the first cab； and took him home。 Here； over their
tea； which he judged the safest meal for a stomach unaccustomed to
food； he told him about his grandmother； and about Dr。 Anderson； and
how he came to give himself to the work he was at； partly for its
own sake； partly in the hope of finding his father。 He told him his
only clue to finding him； and that he had called on Mrs。 Macallister
twice every week for two years； but had heard nothing of him。 De
Fleuri listened with what rose to great interest before the story
was finished。 And one of its ends at least was gained： the weaver
was at home with him。 The poor fellow felt that such close relation
to an outcast； did indeed bring Falconer nearer to his own level。
'Do you want it kept a secret； sir？' he asked。
'I don't want it made a matter of gossip。 But I do not mind how
many respectable people like yourself know of it。'
He said this with a vague hope of assistance。
Before they parted； the unaccustomed tears had visited the eyes of
De Fleuri； and he had consented not only to repair Mrs。 Chisholm's
garret…floor； but to take in hand the expenditure of a certain sum
weekly； as he should judge expedient； for the people who lived in
that and the neighbouring housesin no case； however； except of
sickness； or actual want of bread from want of work。 Thus did
Falconer appoint a sorrow…made infidel to be the almoner of his
christian charity； knowing well that the nature of the Son of Man
was in him； and that to get him to do as the Son of Man did； in ever
so small a degree； was the readiest means of bringing his higher
nature to the birth。 Nor did he ever repent the choice he had made。
When he waited upon Miss St。 John the next day； he found her in the
ordinary dress of a lady。 She received him with perfect confidence
and kindness； but there was no reference made to the past。 She told
him that she had belonged to a sisterhood； but had left it a few
days before； believing she could do better without its restrictions。
'It was an act of cowardice；' she said；'wearing the dress
yesterday。 I had got used to it； and did not feel safe without it；
but I shall not wear it any more。'
'I think you are right；' said Falconer。 'The nearer any friendly act
is associated with the individual heart； without intervention of
class or creed； the more the humanity； which is the divinity of it；
will appear。'
He then told her about Nancy。
'I will keep her about myself for a while；' said Miss St。 John；
'till I see what can be done with her。 I know a good many people
who without being prepared； or perhaps able to take any trouble； are
yet ready to do a kindness when it is put in their way。'
'I feel more and more that I ought to make some friends；' said
Falconer； 'for I find my means of help reach but a little way。 What
had I better do？ I suppose I could get some introductions。I
hardly know how。'
'That will easily be managed。 I will take that in hand。 If you
will accept invitations； you will soon know a good many peopleof
all sorts；' she added with a smile。
About this time Falconer； having often felt the pressure of his
ignorance of legal affairs； and reflected whether it would not add
to his efficiency to rescue himself from it； began such a course of
study as would fit him for the profession of the law。 Gifted with
splendid health； and if with a slow strength of grasping； yet with a
great power of holding； he set himself to work； and regularly read
for the bar。
CHAPTER VIII。
MY OWN ACQUAINTANCE。
It was after this that my own acquaintance with Falconer commenced。
I had just come out of one of the theatres in the neighbourhood of
the Strand； unable to endure any longer the dreary combination of
false magnanimity and real meanness； imported from Paris in the
shape of a melodrama； for the delectation of the London public。 I
had turned northwards； and was walking up one of the streets near
Covent Garden； when my attention was attracted to a woman who came
out of a gin…shop； carrying a baby。 She went to the kennel； and
bent her head over； ill with the poisonous stuff she had been
drinking。 And while the woman stood in this degrading posture； the
poor； white； wasted baby was looking over her shoulder with the
smile of a seraph； perfectly unconscious of the hell around her。
'Children will see things as God sees them；' murmured a voice beside
me。
I turned and saw a tall man with whose form I had already become a
little familiar； although I knew nothing of him； standing almost at
my elbow； with his eyes fixed on the woman and the child； and a
strange smile of tenderness about his mouth； as if he were blessing
the little creature in his heart。
He too saw the wonder of the show； typical of so much in the world；
indeed of the world itselfthe seemingly vile upholding and
ministering to the life of the pure； the gracious； the fearless。
Aware from his tone more than from his pronunciation that he was a
fellow…countryman； I ventured to speak to him； and in a
home…dialect。
'It's a wonnerfu' sicht。 It's the cake o' Ezekiel ower again。'
He looked at me sharply； thought a moment； and said；
'You were going my way when you stopped。 I will walk with you； if
you will。'
'But what's to be done about it？' I said。
'About what？' he returned。
'About the child there；' I answered。
'Oh！ she is its mother；' he replied； walking on。
'What difference does that make？' I said。
'All the difference in the world。 If God has given her that child；
what right have you or I to interfere？'
'But I verily believe from the look of the child she gives it gin。'
'God saves the world by the new blood； the children。 To take her
child from her； would be to do what you could to damn her。'
'It doesn't look much like salvation there。'
'You mustn't interfere with God's thousand years any more than his
one day。'
'Are you sure she is the mother？' I asked。
'Yes。 I would not have left the child with her otherwise。'
'What would you have done with it？ Got it into some orphan
asylum？or the Foundling perhaps？'
'Never；' he answered。 'All those societies are wretched inventions
for escape from the right way。 There ought not to be an orphan
asy