and he found himself wandering, half dazed, in the more aristocratic
portion of the city. He was too tired to go to the old smelter again.
He could not think clearly and muttered and mumbled to himself as he
stumbled aimlessly along.

The door of a cottage opened, letting out a flood of light, and a
woman's voice called, "Dick, Oh Dick, come home now; supper is waiting."
And a lad of ten, playing in the neighboring yard with his young
companion, answered with a shout as he bounded across the lawn. Through
the windows our Dick caught a glimpse of the cosy home: father, mother,
two sisters, bright pictures, books, and a table set with snowy linen,
shining silver and sparkling glass.

Later, strange voices seemed to call him, and several times he paused
to listen. Then someone in the distance seemed to say, "Move on; Move
on." The words echoed and re-echoed through his tired brain. "Move on;
Move on," the weary, monotonous strain continued as he dragged his
heavy feet along the pavement. "Move on; Move on;" the words seemed
repeated just ahead. Who was it? What did they want, and why couldn't
they let him rest? He drew near a large building with beautiful stained
glass windows, through which the light streamed brilliantly. In the
center was a picture of the Christ, holding in his arms a lamb, and
beneath, the inscription, "I came to seek and to save that which was
lost."

"Move on; Move on;" the words seemed shrieked in his ears now, and
looking up he saw a steeple in the form of a giant hand, pointing
toward the stormy sky. "Why of course,"--he laughed with mirthless
lips,--"of course,--it's a church. What a fool--I ought to have come
here long ago.--This is Thursday night and that voice is the bell