the fouled fragments of her brain, even in the bitterest hour of
her bare life,--a faith faith in God, faith in her fellow-man,
faith in herself. No human soul refused to answer its summons.
Down in the dark alleys, in the very vilest of the black and
white wretches that crowded sometimes about her cart, there was
an undefined sense of pride in protecting this wretch whose
portion of life was more meagre and low than theirs. Something
in them struggled up to meet the trust in the pitiful
eyes,--something which scorned to betray the trust,--some
Christ-like power in their souls, smothered, dying, under the
filth of their life and the terror of hell. A something in them
never to be lost. If the Great Spirit of love and trust lives,
not lost!

Even in the cold and quiet of the woman walking by her side the
homely power of the poor huckster was wholesome to strengthen.
Margret left her, turning into the crowded street leading to the
part of the town where the factories lay. The throng of
anxious-faced men and women jostled and pushed, but she passed
through them with a different heart from yesterday's. Somehow,
the morbid fancies were gone: she was keenly alive; the coarse
real life of this huckster fired her, touched her blood with a
more vital stimulus than any tale of crusader. As she went down
the crooked maze of dingy lanes, she could hear Lois's little
cracked bell far off: it sounded like a Christmas song to her.
She half smiled, remembering how sometimes in her distempered
brain the world had seemed a gray, dismal Dance of Death. How
actual it was to-day,--hearty, vigorous, alive with honest work
and tears and pleasure! A broad, good world to live and work in,
to suffer or die, if God so willed it,--God, the good!