every side, standin' up or lying down, always burnin'! No water, no light, no mercy, no hope. And when a million million years are past, still burnin', and no nearer the end than at the beginnin'. Oh, how shall I bear it-how shall I bear it?"

And big drops of perspiration oozed from his forehead and rolled down his face, testifying to the anguish of his soul.

on.

"I canna understand it-I canna understand it," he went "All this pain and suffering for His glory. What kind o' glory can it be, to bring folks into the world doomed aforehand to eternal misery? to give 'em no chance o' repentance, an' then damn them for ever 'cause they don't repent! O Lord a mercy, excuse me, but I canna see no justice in it anywhere."

Create

And once more Joe got up and began to pace up and down in front of the fire; but the thoughts would not leave him. "Whom He did foreknow," he went on, 666 'them also He did predestinate.' Mighty queer, that a Father should love a part o' His fam'ly an' hate the rest. 'em only to burn 'em for ever an' ever! An' what's the use o' the burnin'? That bangs me complete. If't was to burn away the dross an' leave the metal, I could understand it. I think sometimes there's jist a bit o' the right stuff in me; an' if hell would burn up the bad an' leave the good, an' give it a chance of someʼat better, there 'ud be more justice in it, seems to me. But what am I a-sayin'? It shows as how I'm none o' the elect, to

be talkin' to myself in this way. What a wicked old sinner I be!"

And once more Joe sat down with a jerk, as if he meant to say, "I'm not going to be bothered with such thoughts any more to-night." But alas! he found that thoughts would come whether he would or no.

"P'r'haps," he said, "we don't know nowt about it, none o' us. Mebbe God is more marcyfuller than we think. An' I'm sadly banged about that 'makin' an end o'sin'; I don't see as how He can make an end o'sin without makin' an end o' the sinner; an' whiles there is millions sich as me in hell, there'll be no end to neither on 'em. I'm sadly out in my reck'nin' somewheres, but 'pears to me if there was no sinners there 'ud be no sin; an' the way to rid the univarse of sinners is to get 'em all saved or kill 'em outright."

Much more to the same effect Joe Wrag turned over in his mind that night, but we must not weary the reader with his speculations. Like many other of God's children, he was crying in the darkness and longing for light. He had found that human creeds, instead of being a ladder leading up into the temple of truth, were rather a house of bondage. Men had spread a veil before the face of God, and he had not courage to pull it aside. Now and then through the rents he caught a ray of light, but it dazzled him so that he was afraid there was something wrong about it, and he turned away his face and looked again into the darkness. And yet the night was surely passing away. It

wanted but a hand to take down the shutters from the windows of his soul, and let the light-ay, and the love of God that surrounded him, like a mighty ocean-rush in. But whose hand should take down the shutters? Through what agency should the light come in? Let us wait and

see.

CHAPTER VII.

TWO VISITS.

Tell me the story slowly,
That I may take it in;
That wonderful redemption,

God's remedy for sin.
Tell me the story simply,

As to a little child;
For I am weak and weary,
And helpless and defiled.

HANKEY.

ONE clear frosty evening early in the new year, two little figures might have been seen threading their way along Old Hall Street, in the opposite direction to the Exchange. It had not long gone five, and numbers of clerks and warehousemen were crowding into the street and hurrying in the direction of their several homes. But the little figures dodged their way with great skill through the crowded street, still holding each other by the hand and keeping up most of the time a sharp trot.

After pursuing a straight course for a considerable distance, they turned off suddenly to the right into a less frequented street. Then they took a turn to the left, and then again

to the right. It was very evident they knew the streets well, for they wound in and out, now right, now left, without the least hesitation.

At length they reached a street where all was darkness, save where here and there the flickering rays of a candle struggled through the dirt-begrimed window. This was Bowker's Row, and Benny and his sister paused for awhile before venturing into the darkness.

For several days the little hearts had been aching with curiosity to visit once more their old home. They had no wish to be seen, and as for living again in Addler's Hall, that was altogether out of the question. Still, they were filled with a curiosity that they could not resist to peep at the old spot once more, and ascertain, if possible, how far their father and stepmother were pleased or otherwise with their disappearance.

They had talked the matter over for several nights as they lay in each other's arms in the warm corner under Betty Barker's stairs. They admitted that there were difficulties, perhaps danger, in paying such a visit; but at length curiosity became too strong for them, and they resolved to risk it.

With Nelly, too, there was something more than curiosity. Notwithstanding his drunken habits and his cruelty to Benny, she loved her father, for there had been times when he had made much of her, and called her "his little Nell." Perhaps she did not love her father very deeply. In comparison with "her Benny," he occupied indeed a very third-rate

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