THERE are some places in London where King Dirt holds a carnival all the year round—narrow back streets, where the tall houses, almost meeting at the top, shut out every gleam of sunlight, except during the longest and hottest days of summer; and then only a narrow rift of golden glory lights up a strip in the centre, and makes the shady corners look more dark and desolate than ever.

In one of the shadowed nooks of such a street sat a little girl, her head leaning against the brick wall for a pillow; and you might have thought her fast asleep, but for an occasional sob. She had cried so long that her eyes were swollen and heavy; and even the faint light of Fisher's Lane made them ache so much that she was glad to close them.

No one noticed her for some time, but at length a girl about her own age stopped and looked at her, and at last spoke.

"What's the matter?" she said, touching her shoulder.

With a sob and a start the girl opened her eyes.

"O Elfie, is it you?" she said; and then her tears broke out afresh.

"What is it? Haven't you got anything to eat?" she asked.

"I shall never want to eat anything again," sobbed the other. "O Elfie, mother's dead!"

"Dead, is she?" said Elfie, but looking as though she could not understand why that should cause any one to cry.

"I shall never be happy again, Elfie. O mother, mother, why didn't you take me with you?" wailed the poor little orphan.

"Just because she didn't want you, I guess," said Elfie, but at the same time sitting down to soothe the grief she could not understand. "There, don't cry," she went on in a matter-of-fact tone. "My mother's gone away, but I don't cry after her; not a bit of it; I know better than that, Susie Sanders."

Susie shrank from her companion's touch as she said this, and thought of what her mother had said about making companions of the children in the street, and half regretted having spoken to Elfie. There was a great difference in the two girls, any one could see, though both might be equally poor. Elfie was unmistakably a street child, ragged, dirty, sharp-looking, with bright cunning eyes shining out of a good-tempered-looking face; while Susie, in her patched black frock and tidy pinafore, and timid, shrinking ways, showed unmistakably that, poor as she might be, there had been some one to love and take care of her. Alas for her, poor child! Her only friend in the wide world had died that morning, leaving her alone in the streets of London.

It was the old, old story: a widow striving to work for herself and her only child, and sinking at last beneath the stroke of disease, after giving up one by one every article of furniture, and moving from place to place, until at last she was glad to find a refuge in the garret of one of these gaunt houses, where she had not lived many weeks before God called her to the mansion he had prepared for her.

She had talked to Susie of this, and tried to prepare the child's mind for the coming of the sad trial; but the little girl had hoped that her mother would get better "by-and-by." And so, when at last she woke up that morning and leaned over her mother, and found that she could not speak, nor even return the caresses lavished on her cold lips and brow, she grew frightened at the unwonted stillness, but yet could not think her mother was dead, until some of the neighbours came in and told her so.

Mrs. Sanders had not made friends with her neighbours, and they had thought her proud, because she did not talk to them of her affairs. And so, beyond telling Susie to go to the overseer of the parish, and ask him to send some one to bury her mother, they did not trouble themselves.

Susie had just been on this errand, and had wandered out again into the street to cry there, when Elfie saw her. They had spoken to each other before, but there had not been much acquaintance, for Mrs. Sanders kept her little girl in-doors as much as possible. But Elfie had taken a fancy to Susie, and resolved to befriend her now; so instead of moving away when she was repulsed, she put her bare grimy arms round Susie's neck, and said—

"Tell us all about it, Susie; the boys shan't hit you while I'm here."

To tell "all about it" was just what Susie wanted. No one else had asked about her mother, except the few hard questions put by the overseer, and so she gladly nestled close up to Elfie, and told of her waking that morning to find her mother cold and dead.

A grief like Susie's was quite beyond Elfie's comprehension. Her mother had left her six months before—gone off no one knew where, and no one cared—at least Elfie did not. No one beat her now, she said; and if she was hungry sometimes, it was better to be hungry than bruised, and no one dared to do that now, so that she was rather glad to be left free to do as she pleased. But Susie shook her head very sadly when told she ought to be glad.

"I can't," she said, "though mother told me that God would take care of me when she was gone. I wanted to go with her; and be happy in heaven now."

"And why didn't she take you?" said Elfie, whose ideas about heaven were not at all clear.

"She said I must stay here a bit longer, and do the work God meant me to do."

"What work's that?" asked Elfie.

Susie shook her head. "I don't know, unless it's sewing shirts like mother did," she said.

"Sewing shirts!" repeated Elfie; "People starve at that, and have to sit still too. I'd rather go about and see places, and starve that way than the other," she added, shrugging her shoulders.

"You don't like sewing, then," said Susie. "What do you do, Elfie, to earn money?"

Elfie laughed. "Oh, it ain't much money I earns; but I manage to get something to eat somehow, and that's what you've got to do now, I suppose."

Again the tears came into Susie's eyes. "I don't know what I'm going to do," she said. "Mother told me to read last night about the ravens taking food to Elijah, and she said God would send his angels here to take care of me."

"Then that shows she knew nothing about this place," said Elfie in her hard, matter-of-fact tone. "Angels don't come down Fisher's Lane—at least I never see 'em, and I'm out pretty near all hours, night and day too."

Susie sighed. "I don't think it was quite an angel with white wings mother meant, but somebody who would be kind and take care of me—a lady or gentleman perhaps," she said.

Elfie laughed. "Catch a lady or gentleman coming down here!" she said.

And the idea of such a thing seemed so ridiculous that she burst into a second peal of laughter, until Susie looked offended.

And then she said more gravely, "It's all a mistake, Susie, about the angels or anybody else caring for you. I know all about it, for I've lived in Fisher's Lane ever since I was born, and people have got to take care of themselves, I can tell you."

"But how shall I take care of myself?" asked Susie. "I know there's some money to pay the rent next week, but when that's gone what am I to do?"

"Get some more," said Elfie shortly. "I'll help you," she added.

"Thank you. Will you come home with me and stay to-night? I'm dull by myself," said Susie with a deep sigh.

Her companion joyfully assented, and went off to the market in search of some stale fruit to share with Susie at once. Then they went back together to Susie's home, and, going up the stairs, overheard two of the women talking to the man who had come to see about the funeral.

Susie was too much overcome with grief to pay any attention to what was said; but Elfie had had all her wits sharpened, and she laid her hand on Susie's arm and made her sit down on the stairs, while she listened to the conversation going on just above them.

When they reached the garret, and Elfie had shut the door and glanced round the room, she said, "Look here, Susie, which will you like best;—to stop here and work for yourself, and go out when you like; or have somebody come and shut you up in a horrible place, with high walls like a prison, and make you work there?"

Susie shivered. "Nobody would do that to me," she said, looking across at the bed where her mother lay covered with the sheet, and thinking what she had said of God caring for her.

"But they will, though, if you don't look sharp, for I heard the woman say you'd better go to the work-house," replied Elfie.

She had heard the work-house spoken of very often, but did not know what it was like, or that the life of children there was far less hard than hers. She only knew they were not allowed to run about the streets; and the idea of being shut up in any place was dreadful to Elfie, and must be to everybody else, she thought.

She succeeded in making Susie dread being taken there.

"But what shall I do to pay the rent here?" she asked.

"Well, it would be nice to stop here," said Elfie; "but I manage without paying rent anywhere and that's a saving of money."

"But where do you go to bed?" asked Susie.

"Well, I ain't been to bed in that sort of bed for nearly six months," she said, pointing towards the corner. "I sleep under a cart, or on a heap of straw, or anywhere I can find a nice place; it don't matter much when you're asleep where you are, so long as you're out of the way of the rats."

Susie shook her head. "I shouldn't like that," she said.

"Well, no, I suppose you wouldn't," said Elfie, again looking round the room. "People that's always been used to tables and chairs, and them sort of things, like you've got here, wouldn't like to sleep out under a waggon, I guess."

"How can people do without tables and chairs?" said Susie. "How can they live?"

"Oh, pretty well! Lots of us have to do without them, and other things besides," said Elfie carelessly; "but you couldn't, I suppose, and so we must try to keep these."

"How shall we do it?" asked Susie.

"Well, you can sew shirts, and I can get a job now and then at the market, and sometimes I clean steps for people, and that all brings money. How much do you pay for this little room?" she asked.

"A shilling a week," answered Susie. "Mother's put the shilling away for next week, and she paid the landlord yesterday."

"All right. Have you got any shirts to sew?" asked Elfie.

Susie opened her mother's bundle of work, and took out two that were unfinished.

"I'll finish them and take them home, and ask them to give me some," she said.

Elfie took one and examined it. "Well, I shouldn't know how to put all them bits in the right places," she said.

This was a difficulty that had never struck Susie. She had helped her mother to make these coarse blue shirts—sewing, hemming, and stitching in turn; but she had never put one together entirely by herself. She looked up in a little dismay.

"I don't think I know how to do it either," she said in a tone of perplexity.

But Elfie turned and turned the shirt about, and at last she said, "Look here, Susie; you'll have to keep one of these back when you take the others home, and then we'll find out how they're to be done between us."

Susie began to think Elfie almost as wise as her mother. She seemed to know how to manage everything, and before evening came she began to look up to her as a friend as well as a companion.

Elfie hardly liked sleeping in the room with that long stretch of whiteness at the farther end. She had never seen Susie's mother while living, and would not have raised the sheet now to look at the still, calm face for anything. She would rather have gone out to sleep in one of the holes or corners of the Adelphi arches, even risking an encounter with the rats, than sleep there; but for Susie's sake she determined to stay.

The next morning she persuaded Susie to sit down to her sewing, while she went out to look for something to eat. Meals taken in the ordinary way Elfie had no idea of; she was used to look about the streets for any scraps of food she could pick up, in the same way that a homeless, hungry dog might do, and so it was no hardship for her to go without her breakfast. Susie had often had to wait for it lately—wait all day, feeling faint and hungry, but obliged to sew and stitch on still, that her mother might get the work home in time. She had to do this to-day, and then could not finish all. But she tied up her bundle, leaving the unfinished one out for a pattern; and then put on her bonnet to go forth to tell the sad story to another—that her mother was dead, and would never sew shirts any more.

As the man counted the shirts over, she said, "Please, sir, I've left one at home, it ain't quite finished; but mother—"

"There, there, child, I can't listen to tales about your mother," interrupted the man; "she's always been honest, and I won't grumble about the shirt this time; but it must not occur again. I can't give you so many either this time, trade is getting dull now."

And pushing Susie's bundle towards her, he turned to another workwoman, and Susie went out wishing she had had the courage to say her mother was dead; for she felt as though she was deceiving him, taking this work to do by herself.

As she went back, Elfie met her. "I've got a nice lot of cold potatoes at home," she said, "and a big handful of cherries that I picked up in the market; and I've seen the work-house man, and told him you ain't going with him."

"What did you say?" asked Susie.

"I told him somebody was coming to live here and take care of you. It's just what I mean to do, Susie," she added; "for I like you, and it'll be fair, you see, if I comes to sleep here when it's cold and wet; for it ain't nice out-of-doors then, I can tell you."

So the compact was formed between these two, and they agreed to help each other and live together, if only the neighbours and work-house people would leave them alone.

They need not have troubled themselves very much about this. The neighbours thought they had done enough when they told the man he had better take Susie to the work-house; while he evidently thought the parish need not be troubled, if she had some one to come and live with and take care of her.

And so, after the coffin was taken out and carried to its lowly resting-place, no one troubled himself to visit the little garret, or look after the lonely orphan. Elfie did not stay in-doors much; but whenever she found anything extra nice, she always ran home to share it with Susie, and faithfully brought in every penny she earned, to put into the tin box where the rent money was kept. Susie succeeded in her shirt-making better than she expected; but life was very hard, and she sorely missed her mother, and shed many bitter tears when she thought of her.

[CHAPTER II.]

GETTING A LIVING.

AFTER Mrs. Sanders was buried, people seemed to forget all about Susie. The landlord called for his rent, and Susie paid him; which was all he wanted, so he did not trouble himself to inquire whether she was living alone or had any one to take care of her; and Elfie had told her not to say anything about it unless she was asked.

Elfie was rather proud of her new mode of living—having a roof to shelter her at night, a little spot she could call home—and she honestly believed Susie could not get on without her; and the feeling that she had some one to take care of, made her more careful of the things which were placed under her charge in the market.

But in spite of her care, and the extra employment it often brought her, the rent money could only be made up sometimes by Susie going without food the day before, for she could not eat the rubbish and refuse Elfie seemed to enjoy. A breakfast or dinner of raw pea-shells Susie could not eat above once or twice; and the stale fruit that Elfie brought home for her often made her ill, so that if she could not afford to buy a loaf, she often preferred being hungry to the chance of being ill and unable to work.

But the greatest trouble of all to Susie was the different way in which she spent Sunday. She missed her mother more on that day than any other; for poor as Mrs. Sanders had been, she had always contrived to go to church and take Susie with her, until she came to Fisher's Lane, and was unable to go out on account of illness. Elfie, however, had no other idea of Sunday than of a day to play more and eat less; for as there were no steps to clean nor baskets to mind, and very little refuse to be found about the market, she generally lay down to sleep, feeling very hungry on Sunday night.

Susie always folded up her work and put it away early on Saturday, that she might have time to clean the room, just as her mother had done. And so Elfie, finding her companion was not going to do any needlework on Sunday, persuaded her to come out to play; and for the sake of pleasing her Susie went. But the rough, noisy games of Elfie's companions, Susie could not enjoy, and she was glad to sit down in a quiet corner and think of her mother and the bright home she had gone to. Then she thought of their walks to church, and what she heard there, and how grieved her mother would be if she could see her now playing with these children, until she felt strongly inclined to run off to church now if only she knew her way.

She resolved not to go out to play again on Sunday; and when the next came round, she said, "Do you know your way to church, Elfie?"

"To church!" repeated Elfie. "They won't let us play there."

"No, I don't want to play," said Susie, looking down at her shabby frock, and wondering whether that was fit to go to church in. "I want to do as mother did, and she always went to church on Sundays."

Elfie looked puzzled. "Church ain't for poor people like us," she said.

"Oh yes, it is. Mother used to say she could never bear the trouble at all, if she could not go to church and get some help from God for it on Sundays."

"Eh? It's all along of the tables and chairs, and sleeping in beds, I suppose," said Elfie, a little disdainfully.

"Church has nothing to do with tables and chairs," said Susie. "We go there to hear about God and the Lord Jesus Christ."

"Well, there ain't no God for poor people that don't have tables and chairs," said Elfie.

"O Elfie, don't say that; God loves you, and wants you to know and love him."

"What! Wants me to go to church?" asked Elfie.

Susie nodded. "Come with me, will you?" she said eagerly.

Elfie laughed. "Catch me trying it, won't you; and there's a policeman walking up and down in front all the time."

"But the policeman is not there to keep people from going in," said Susie.

"What does he walk up and down there for, then?" asked Elfie quickly.

Susie could not answer this question, but she said, "Well, I know he don't keep people out."

"Not fine people that's got tables and chairs at home. God wants them in there perhaps, and so he gives the police orders to let 'em in. I know all about it, you see," she added triumphantly.

But Susie shook her head. "No, you don't," she said. "God wants us to know and love him—you and me, Elfie."

"I know them police that stands at the door, and that's enough for me," said the girl. "You can go if you like. Church, and tables, and chairs, and eating off plates, and sleeping in beds, is all one, I guess; and them that gets used to it can't do without it. But I can, and I shan't run to the police for that."

But although Elfie would not go with Susie, she willingly consented to show her the way; for she had not been to a church in this neighbourhood, and only knew the road to take the work backwards and forwards. So, after carefully washing her face and brushing her hair, and making herself as tidy as possible, Susie went out, carrying her prayer-book in her pocket-handkerchief, and trying to fancy that her mother was with her still.

Elfie would not come near the church; but after pointing it out, and watching Susie go in, she ran back to play with her companions, wondering all the time what could be going on inside the church to make Susie so anxious to go there. This was her first question when she met her as she came home.

"What do you look at—what do you do," she asked, "when you go to church?"

"We pray and sing, and hear what the minister says," answered Susie.

"What does he say?" asked Elfie.

Susie thought for a minute, and then answered, "Well, he reads out of the Bible, and says, 'Our Father.' You know that, don't you?"

But Elfie shook her head. "Who is 'Our Father'?" she asked.

"God, who lives up in heaven, where mother's gone," answered Susie.

"He's your Father, then, I suppose," said Elfie.

"Yes, and yours too," said Susie quickly.

"No, he ain't; I don't know him," said Elfie, shaking her head with a little sigh.

"But he knows you, Elfie—knows you, and loves you, and wants you to love him."

But Elfie shook her head persistently. "I don't know nothing about him, and nobody ever loved me," she' said.

And to end the conversation, she ran away to finish her game of buttons, while Susie walked quietly home.

She ate a slice of dry bread for her dinner, and saved one for Elfie; and then took her mother's Bible out of the little box, and sat down to read a chapter just as she used to do before her mother died. But the sight of the familiar old book upset all her firmness, and she sat down with it in her lap, and burst into tears. She was still crying when Elfie came rushing in to ask if she would not come out and join their play.

"What's the matter?" she exclaimed when she saw Susie in tears. "Are you so hungry?" she asked—for hunger seemed the only thing worth crying for to Elfie; and then, seeing the slice of bread on the table, and guessing it had been left for her, she put it on the Bible, saying, "You eat it, Susie; I've had some cold potatoes, and I ain't very hungry now."

But Susie put it back into her hands. "No, no, Elfie; you must eat that," she said. "I'm not crying because I'm hungry."

"What is it then?" said Elfie.

Susie looked down at the book lying in her lap. "I was thinking about mother," she said.

"Are you getting tired of living with me?" asked Elfie quickly.

"Oh no; you're very kind. I don't know what I should do without you, Elfie; but I do want my mother," said Susie through her tears.

Elfie looked puzzled. She was beginning to understand that all the mothers in the world were not like hers—that Susie's was not; and she could not understand why Mrs. Sanders had gone away and left her.

"What made her go away?" she asked.

Susie left off crying to look at her companion in surprise. "Don't you know God took her to heaven?" she said.

"Yes, I know, you said that before," answered Elfie impatiently; "but what made him take her?"

"Because he loved her," said Susie.

"But you said just now he loved you; why didn't he take you up there as well?"

"I asked mother about that one day, when she was telling me she should have to go away; but she said she thought God had some work for me to do in the world first before he took me home." And Susie dried her tears, and tried to be brave and choke back her sobs as she spoke.

"What work will you have to do?" asked Elfie, sitting down on the floor close to Susie's stool. Elfie always preferred rolling on the floor to sitting on any kind of seat; and she greatly enjoyed questioning Susie.

"Mother said God would teach me that if I asked him," answered Susie. "I don't know yet what it will be."

"Then why don't you ask him?" said Elfie in her straightforward fashion.

"I do," whispered Susie. "I ask him every night; because I want to do it, and then go home to mother."

"Is that what you do when you kneel down before you get into bed?" asked Elfie.

Susie nodded. "God hears what I say, too," she answered.

"Well, then, why didn't your mother ask him to let her stay and help you to do the work, if she didn't want to go away?" said Elfie sharply.

Susie knew not what to answer. The question puzzled her not a little; and to escape from Elfie's saying any more, she proposed reading a chapter from the Bible.

Elfie had grown tired of playing, and was quite willing to listen. She could not read herself, and was full of wonder that Susie could; and for some time she chattered and questioned so much about this that Susie could not begin; but at last she grew quiet, and Susie turned to her favourite verses in St. Matthew—the story of young children being brought to Jesus.

"That was kind of him to say, 'Let the children come to me,'" said Elfie when Susie paused.

"Yes; the Lord Jesus is always kind," said Susie.

"I wish he was here in London; I'd go to him," said Elfie. "It's nice to have anybody speak kind to you."

"You can go to him, Elfie," said Susie. "The Lord Jesus has gone up to heaven again now; but he'll hear you just as plain as though he was in the room here."

Elfie stared. "You don't think I'm going to believe that, do you?" she said sharply.

"Why not? It's the truth," said Susie.

"Maybe it is for fine folks that wants a lot of things to live, but not for a poor little street girl like me," answered Elfie.

"Why don't you think it's for you, Elfie?" asked her companion.

"Because I know what I am, and I guess he'd soon find out I was street rubbish, as the fine folks call me in the market." And Elfie clenched her fist angrily as she spoke.

"O Elfie, Jesus don't think you're street rubbish!" said Susie. "I think he cares for people all the more when he knows they're poor, because he was a poor man himself once."

"A poor man!" exclaimed Elfie. "Why, you said he was God's Son, and all the world was his."

"So it is; but when he came down here, the people wouldn't believe he was God's Son, and so he lived like a poor man—as poor as you and I, I think, Elfie."

But Elfie shook her head. "I'm street rubbish, but you ain't," she said.

"I found a verse about it," said Susie, "where Jesus says how poor he was—'The foxes have holes, and the birds of the air have nests, but the Son of man hath not where to lay his head.' There; that means Jesus had no home or comfortable bed, he was so poor," said Susie.

Elfie sat looking at her in dumb surprise.

"He was just as poor as me," she said. "Why didn't he go away, and leave the people, if he was God's Son?"

"Because he loved them, and he wanted them to know it; and to know that God loved them too, and wanted them to love him and be happy."

Elfie had never had any one to love her in all her life, and she could but dimly understand what Susie meant; but she did understand it a little, and all the vain longings she had felt when looking at a mother kissing her child sprung up in her heart now, as she said, in a subdued, gentle voice, "I wish he'd love me just a little."

"He does love you," said Susie, "not a little, but a great deal."

"Did he tell you to tell me so?" asked Elfie eagerly.

Susie knew not what to reply to this; but the thought stole into her heart—Was this the work her mother had spoken of—was she to tell Elfie of the love of God, try to make her understand it, and lead her to love him?

But her silence made Elfie think she had no message for her, and she said, "You need not be afraid to tell me, Susie; nobody ever did love me, and nobody ever will; and I don't want any love either." But in spite of these words, so sharply and angrily spoken, Elfie burst into tears.

Susie had never seen her cry before, and for very sympathy she burst into tears herself, as she threw her arms round her companion's neck, and drew her closely towards her. "Don't cry, Elfie; I'll love you," she said. "I'll love you ever so much; and you'll believe God loves you too; won't you?" she added coaxingly.

Elfie clung to Susie, and held her in a passionate embrace. "Say it again—" she whispered, "say you love me, Susie; it's what I've been wanting ever so long, I think."

"Everybody wants it," said Susie. "God puts the feeling in our heart, mother said; and then he gives us people to love us, just that we may know how he loves us himself."

"Tell me some more about it," said Elfie, still in the same subdued voice, and clinging fast round Susie's neck, her dirty tangled head of hair resting on her shoulder.

"I don't know how to tell it, Elfie, but just as the Bible tells it. Mother made me learn a good many verses about the love of God. I'll tell you some of them. 'God is love'; 'Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him'; 'God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.' Now, don't you see God must love you, for you're in the world, and God so loved the world that he sent Jesus Christ to die that we might be saved?"

"Saved?" repeated Elfie.

"Yes; saved from our sins—the wicked things we do that make God sorry, and angry too," said Susie.

But Elfie did not care to hear about this; she wanted to know whether it was possible for God to love her—whether he had told Susie, he would love her.

"I'd do anything for that," she said, pushing back her tangled hair. "Do you think he'd like me better if I was to keep my face clean and comb my hair like you do?" she asked.

Susie smiled. "I think God does like people to be clean," she said; "and I'd like it, Elfie."

"Then I'll do it," said Elfie in a determined tone. "I've thought it was no good. Before, I was just street rubbish, and nobody cared for me; but if you do, and God will, I'll wash my face; and perhaps he will by-and-by, as the Lord Jesus his Son was a poor man himself."

And Elfie went at once to fetch some water to wash her face, and Susie promised to help her to do her hair.

[CHAPTER III.]

OUR FATHER.

FROM this time Elfie began to pay some attention to her personal appearance. She washed her face and hands, and combed her hair every morning, before she went out, and, of course, looked less wild; but her rags, poor child, were past mending, and there seemed no hope of ever being able to replace these with better clothes now. New ones—new frocks, new shoes, that gave other little girls so much pleasure—Elfie had never had. Sometimes she wore a pair of old shoes or boots picked up in the street, and sometimes she went barefoot. And it was much the same with frocks and bonnets: sometimes she picked up a rag that would cover her, or had one given her, and she wore it until it dropped to pieces. She had never been quite naked; but many times she had been almost so, until some one had given her something to put on.

She began to wish now that some one would do so again; and formed all sorts of plans for saving enough money to buy herself a frock at a second-hand clothes' stall—plans that always failed, for winter was drawing near, and the two girls found it harder work than ever to pay the rent and buy bread to eat.

"The rent must be paid," Elfie said over and over again, as if to convince herself of a fact she half doubted.

Susie said nothing, but stitched away as fast as she could, and always contrived to have the shilling for the landlord when he called; for she knew if it were not paid, they would be turned into the street, and for Elfie's sake, as well as her own, she did not wish this to happen. Elfie said she did not care, she had always been used to a street life, but that it would never do for Susie; and so for her sake—to keep Susie's home for her—she grew more careful and steady, that she might be trusted by people to do odd jobs for them, and thus bring in a few pence to add to the weekly store.

But with all Elfie's care and steadiness, and Susie's close stitching, they had a hard time of it to make ends meet; and Susie grew pale and weak, and often suffered from pain in her side. She went regularly to church on Sunday, but she could never persuade Elfie to do so. Church was for decent folk, not for her, she said; but she looked forward to sitting down with her arms round Susie's neck, to listen to her reading from the Bible, on Sunday afternoon.

Sometimes they contrived to have a fire on Sunday, but it was not often they could have one all the week, except to boil the kettle occasionally; for Susie still kept up the habit of having regular meals, and was gradually winning Elfie to like this plan too.

People began to notice the pale, pinched little face under the shabby black bonnet, that was seen so regularly every Sunday in a quiet corner of the church; and at length, a lady spoke to her as she was coming out one day.

"Where do you live, little girl?" asked the lady kindly.

It was very cold, and the lady could not help shivering in her warm furs, and she noticed that Susie had only a thin cape on.

"In Fisher's Lane, please, ma'am," answered Susie, dropping a courtesy and blushing.

But the lady did not know Fisher's Lane. "Do you go to the Ragged School?" she asked.

Susie shook her head. "I don't know where it is," she said.

"That is a pity," said the lady, "for there is a Sunday school there afternoon and evening, in a nice, warm room, and the teachers would be glad to see you, I am sure."

"Would they?" said Susie. "I used to go to Sunday school before we came to live here. Perhaps Elfie knows where it is, and maybe she'll come with me."

"Ask her," said the lady; "we shall be very glad to see you both."

She did not stay to ask who Elfie was; but she looked after Susie as she ran down the street, and was surprised to see her join poor, ragged, neglected-looking Elfie—for Susie still contrived to keep a decent appearance, although her clothes were so thin and old.

The lady's invitation was repeated to Elfie; but to Susie's surprise she did not look at all pleased.

"Do you know where the school is?" asked Susie.

Elfie nodded. "Yes, I know where it is, but I shan't go."

"O Elfie, do," said Susie coaxingly.

"No, I shan't. You may, if you want to leave me all alone on Sunday afternoons," said Elfie sulkily.

"But I don't want to leave you, Elfie; want you to come with me," said Susie.

"I don't want to come," said Elfie doggedly.

"Why not?" persistently asked Susie.

"I don't like schools, nor them that go to 'em." And to end all further discussion on the subject, Elfie ran home, leaving Susie to follow more leisurely.

There was nothing for her to hurry home for. The room looked cold, bare, and desolate, for they could not indulge in a fire to-day; they had not been able to make up the rent money, and the thought of this had troubled Susie until she went to church. There, however, she had heard the message bidding her to cast her care upon God; and she came home to the cheerless room, and her dinner of dry bread, feeling as blithe as a bird.

"Why, what's come to you, Susie?" asked Elfie. "You was crying and fretting about the rent money before you went out, and now you look as though you'd got it all safe in the tin box."

The mention of the rent brought a little cloud into Susie's face, but it was quickly dispelled as she answered, "O Elfie, I wish you could have heard the minister to-day, and what he said about God taking care of us."

"It don't seem as though he took much care of you and me," said Elfie sulkily, as she looked at the empty grate, and tried to draw her rags over her bare shoulders.

"Are you very cold, Elfie?" asked Susie tenderly.

"I shouldn't think you was very warm," said Elfie crossly. "Your frock ain't in rags perhaps, but it's as thin as mine."

"Yes, it is thin," said Susie, "and I'm cold; but it seems to me God does care even for our being cold, for he's sent to tell us we may go where there is a fire this afternoon."

"Where's that?" asked Elfie sharply.

"At the school the lady told me about," answered Susie. "She said there was a fire there, and that they would be very glad to see us."

"Well, I shan't go," said Elfie. "I'd rather stop here in the cold."

This seemed unreasonable to Susie. "Do tell me why you won't go?" she said.

"No, I shan't. And if you go, don't you tell anybody you know me," said Elfie.

"Why not? Have you been to the school before?" asked Susie.

"I shan't tell you, and I won't go," said Elfie doggedly.

Susie was puzzled. She hardly knew what to do, for she did not like to leave Elfie, and yet she wanted to go to school. But at length she decided to stay at home and read to her companion, and go to the school in the evening, if Elfie would show her the way; for they had no fire and no candle to burn to-night, and it would be very dull to sit there in the dark listening to the noises in the other lodgers' rooms, for there was rarely a Sunday evening passed without a quarrel in the house. Elfie would go out to play with some of her companions as soon as it grew dusk; but Susie had given up going out to play on Sunday.

After a little persuasion, Elfie agreed to take Susie to the corner of the street where the school was; but she would not go any further, and she promised to meet her at the same corner when she came out after school.

"But I don't know what time the school will be over," said Susie.

"I do," said Elfie with a short laugh; "but mind you ain't to tell any of 'em who showed you the way," she added in a more serious tone.

Susie promised not to mention her name, and she hoped the lady who had invited her would forget that she had said she would bring Elfie with her; but she could not help thinking it very strange that Elfie should dislike the idea of coming so much.

The children had begun to assemble when she reached the school; and hardly knowing where she was going, Susie went into the large, light, warm room, and looked round for the lady whom she had seen in the morning. She was not there, but another teacher came forward and asked her name, and where she lived; and on hearing she could read put her into the Bible class at once.

Susie looked shyly at her companions, who were, of course, looking at her, but not very shyly, for many of them looked as though they were used to a street life, and most of them were older than herself. What a treat it was to these poor girls to sit down in a warm, light room, Susie could only guess. To her it was very delightful—the mere sensation of light and warmth; and the only drawback to her enjoyment was the thought that poor Elfie was not sharing it.

She could join in singing the opening hymn; and then, when the books were given out, she found her place more quickly than the rest, and ventured to lift her eyes to the teacher's face for a minute, and then saw that the lady was looking at her.

"You have not been to the school before, have you, my dear?" she said in a gentle voice.

"No, ma'am," answered Susie.

"I hope we shall see you very often now. Can you come every Sunday?" said the lady.

"Yes, ma'am," replied Susie.

And then, the others having found their places, the reading commenced. The lady explained the meaning of each verse as they went on, but spoke more particularly of God's care for his children.

When school was over, and Susie met Elfie, she told her of the evening lesson, and how like it was to what she had heard in the morning; but Elfie answered, "I'm going to take care of myself now, and then perhaps God will do it for me by-and-by."

"I think we need God's care now," sighed Susie, thinking of the deficient store of halfpence in the tin box at home.

"Well, we don't get it," said Elfie defiantly; "and going to that school won't bring it neither. Don't go again, Susie," she added.

"But I like it; and I must go now, because I've promised," said Susie. "I do wish you would go with me, it is so nice, Elfie. We sing, and read, and pray to God; and the room is so beautiful with the fire and the gas."

"I know all about it," said Elfie sulkily; "and I know just what you'll do too: you'll go to that school, and then you won't like me. Some of 'em 'll tell you I'm a bad girl, and then you won't speak to me." And the thought of this so overcame poor Elfie that she burst into tears.

Susie put her arm round her neck, and drew her own thin cape over her shoulders. "Nobody shall make me say that about you, Elfie," she said. "Don't cry. I'll love you always; and you shall come to school with me, and learn to read."

But Elfie still shook her head about going to school. "I can't go there," she said.

"Yes, you shall, Elfie. I know why you don't like to go; it's because your frock is so old. But we'll try and make another this week. I think mother would like you to have her frock to go to school in," she added. "And there's her shawl; perhaps we could make two of it; and I don't think she'd mind, as we are so cold."

Susie was determined that nothing should damp her happiness to-night, and she would not listen to Elfie's refusal to go to school. She felt brave, too, or she could not have spoken about cutting up her mother's dress and wearing her shawl as she did. Yes, the little girl was brave and hopeful. What she had heard of God's care and tender love to-day had brought back all the lessons of her childhood; and she could believe that God was her Father, and cared—really cared for and loved her.

When they reached home she said, "I wish you'd kneel down and say 'Our Father' of a night, like I do, Elfie."

"But I don't know it," said Elfie.

"Well, I'll teach you, shall I? You can say it after me in bed until you know it by yourself; only, I'd like you to kneel down and say it first, like I did to mother."

Elfie was generally willing to do anything to please her companion, and she very readily consented to this. And so, after shutting the door, the two girls knelt down in the pale moonlight beside a chair, and Elfie repeated the words slowly and reverently as Susie uttered them—the divine words that make all men brothers and all women sisters.

There must have been some such thought as this in Susie's mind, for as she crept into bed after Elfie she said, "I did not think of it before, but you are my sister, Elfie, so I shall never forget to love you;" and she kissed her as she spoke.

Elfie threw her arms round her. "Say you'll love me always," she whispered; "for there's nobody else in all the world if you don't."

"I do love you," said Susie. "But oh, Elfie, I wish you'd believe God loves you too—that he is our Father."

"I don't know nothing about fathers; I never had a father," said Elfie. "But if you'll love me, perhaps I shall believe that God does, by-and-by—especially as the Lord Jesus was a poor man. I like to hear about that, because, you see, it makes it seem somehow that he knows all about poor people—even street rubbish like I am, if he had no bed and no home."

Before they went to sleep that night, Elfie had learned to repeat the Lord's Prayer almost perfectly (she could learn quickly if she liked); and at last dropped to sleep murmuring the words, "Our Father—our Father." And Susie thought over all she had heard that day of the heavenly Father's love; and at last fell asleep, to dream that her mother had come back to lift all the care off her shoulders, and shelter her from every rough wind that blew.

But Monday morning brought the every-day anxiety with it; and Susie's first thought was of the landlord, and what he would say when he came in the afternoon and found she had only tenpence of the rent saved up in the tin box. She tried to recall something of what she had heard the previous day—tried to cast her care upon God; but it was very hard; and it was not until she had knelt down and prayed, ay, and sobbed out her trouble before him, that she could believe any of it this morning, although she had felt so sure of it the day before.

Elfie had woke up first and gone out. She often did this if there was only a small piece of bread in the house, because then she could leave the bread for Susie, and pick up her breakfast at the market, or about the streets.

So, after eating her bread, Susie took out her work, sitting upon the low stool, with the blanket of the bed wrapped round her, for it was bitterly cold this morning, and they had no fire. They had been afraid to buy coals or wood, as they could not make up the rent. This was Susie's great anxiety this morning. What the landlord would say, she did not know. He was a gruff, cross man; and Susie dreaded his visit—sat trembling with fear at the thought of hearing him come up the stairs; and again and again lifted her heart in asking that they might not be turned out of their home.

[CHAPTER IV.]

ELFIE'S SIXPENCE.

SUSIE'S suspense as to the result of the landlord's visit came to an end sooner than she expected. He called earlier than usual to-day, and the poor girl's last faint hope that Elfie would be able to earn twopence and get back before he came was cut off as she heard his halting footsteps coming up the stairs. He knocked at the opposite door first, and Susie hoped he would be detained there, and she crept to the top of the stairs and looked over, in the hope of seeing Elfie coming up.

But Elfie was not to be seen; and with a sinking heart, Susie went back and took down the tin box, and then sat down to her work again, waiting for the door to open and Elfie to come in, for somehow she had persuaded herself that she would come in yet. But in a minute or two, the opposite door closed, and then there was a knock at her own. Susie could hardly walk across the room to open it, she trembled so violently.

"Good morning," said the landlord pleasantly, as he stepped in and looked round the room. "You keep the place nice and clean," he said approvingly. "But why don't you have a fire, child? It's cold to-day, and you sitting at your sewing."

"Yes, sir," said Susie meekly, glancing at the empty grate, and hardly knowing how to tell him she had not been able to make up the rent.

"You ought to have a fire," went on the man, not noticing her confusion, and wishing to say something kind to the poor little orphan. "You ought to have a fire this cold day; every other room in the house has one."

"Have they, sir?" said Susie, thinking the man was displeased. "I'm very sorry I can't get one too; but I don't think the place will get damp—we have one sometimes."

"The place get damp!" repeated the landlord. "What do you mean, child?"

"Please, sir, I thought you was afraid the room would spoil," said Susie, still dreading to make the revelation that she had only tenpence of the rent.

"Spoil!" repeated the man. And he looked round on the patched, discoloured walls, and laughed. "Why, child, you keep your room nicer than any other in the house. I was thinking you must be cold."

"I don't mind that much, sir, if I can only stay here," said Susie; "but—but please, sir, I've only got tenpence of the rent to-day. I hope you won't turn us out for the other twopence. I'll try and pay it next week, sir," she added.

The man took the halfpence and counted them, and then looked at the little pale, pinched face before him. He loved money, and was used to scenes of misery, but was not quite without human feeling, and Susie's mute distress was almost more than he could look upon unmoved. "Who told you I should turn you out, child?" he said.

"No one, but—but I was afraid you would if I didn't keep the rent paid," said Susie.

"Yes, to be sure—of course I should—I can't do without my rent," said the landlord; "but still, in the case of a little girl that's honest and tries to do her best, I shouldn't be hard on her for twopence. But you mustn't let the others know I said this," he added quickly.

"No, sir; and I'll try to pay it next week," answered Susie with a sigh of relief; as the man turned towards the door.

"Good-bye, child," said the man, still toying with the halfpence he held in his hand. Susie thought he had gone, and took up her work again, but the next minute he was back.

"Never mind about the twopence next week," he said in a hurried whisper: "and look here, child; I don't like to think of you sitting here without a fire: go and buy some wood and coals with this." And as he spoke he laid fourpence on the table, and then hurried to the door again.

Susie could not thank him, she could only look her dumb surprise, and then burst into tears. While he stumped downstairs, wondering what could have made him give back to the girl half a week's rent.

Susie knew how it was, although her landlord did not, and still sobbing, she knelt down to thank God for his loving care of her. As soon as her tears had subsided a little, and she could smile at the thought of her anticipated trouble that never came, she got up and went out to buy some wood and coals to light a fire; for she ought to do this, she thought, as the money had been given her for that purpose. She wanted to surprise Elfie, too, by getting up a bright blaze before she came in; so that she was rather disappointed, when she returned with her load, to see Elfie sitting down by the empty grate.

The coals were heavy, although there was only a small quantity, and Susie was panting for breath as she pushed open the door; but Elfie did not lift her head from her knees, where she had buried her face, as she sat crouching on the floor.

"What's the matter?" asked Susie in some alarm, as she lifted the coals on to the hearth.

"Nothing," replied Elfie, without raising her head.

Susie thought she knew what it was. "Look up, Elfie," she said, in a tone of gladness: "the landlord's been here, and it's all right now; and see what I've got."

Elfie slowly raised her head, but did not look at Susie or the bag of coals. "The landlord's been here," she slowly repeated; "then I'm too late after all;" and her head went down lower than before.

Susie was puzzled, until looking round she saw a little pile of halfpence on the table. "O Elfie, where did you get all that money?" she said in a tone of joyful surprise, as she sprang over to count it. "Sixpence! O Elfie, how rich we are! And I've just been to buy some coals to make a fire. But why don't you look up?" she added, as she noticed that her companion's head was still bowed upon her knees.

But Elfie did not move, did not attempt to lift her head, but grumbled out something Susie could not understand.

"Are you ill, Elfie?" asked Susie in alarm.

"No, no; leave me alone, and light the fire," said the girl, shaking off the hand that had been laid upon her shoulder.

"I know what it is: you're sorry you did not get home in time to pay the landlord. But it doesn't matter one bit; he was very kind, and won't turn us out, and we ain't to pay the twopence next week. Wouldn't you like to know how I got the coals?" said Susie.

"How did you get 'em?" said Elfie, just lifting her head for a minute.

"Hold your head up, then, and tell me how you got all that money on the table first," said Susie laughing.

Saved by love

SAVED BY LOVE

[CHAPTER I.]

[CHAPTER II.]

[CHAPTER III.]

[CHAPTER IV.]