me a few coppers? the children are hungry, and I have no bread in the house."

"That's a bad business," he answered in drawling tones. "I'm awfully sorry, but I've spent my last penny; one can't sit here and not drink, and it's dreadfully cold outside; and you keep such bad fires at home, Nell, you can't scold a fellow for coming here;" and the drunkard began to whimper, as a naughty child would do who dreaded a scolding.

But there was no fear of that: Mrs. Williams, patient and gentle always, never scolded, though she often tried to reason with her poor selfish, misguided husband; and then not for her own sake so much as the children's, But she never even attempted this but in her own home, in some of her husband's more sober moments. She would have thought it wrong to have exposed his faults at a public-house; for she still, in spite of all, loved him, and love seeks to cover, not to reveal, the failings of the erring.

Mrs. Williams looked at her husband sorrowfully yet tenderly, and then without a word she left that public-house, left the din and noisy mirth of the taproom, the bright lights, and heaped-up grate of burning coals, and went once more into the chill and dismal street, with an aching, breaking heart, wondering where to look for bread for the hungry ones at home.

Mrs. Williams walked on briskly, though not knowing where to go, or what to do; want and misery had paled her cheeks and well-nigh broken her heart; yet with the darkness had come a light, unknown and unrealized in the days of sunshine and brightness.

Mrs. Williams had learnt to look upwards in her sorrow, she had sought and found a friend in God; and now, however great her anguish, however dark the cloud that hung over her, she never felt utterly and hopelessly destitute; she would lift up her breaking heart in prayer to her God, and find comfort, if not positive peace. She did so now. No words came, but the poor woman, in the midst of cold and hunger, sorrow and perplexity, felt "God is near; He knows all, and He will help me."

An idea came into her mind-she must part with something and get money. There was one thing left (the kitchen clock, her Sunday shawl, her print of the Last Supper, which her kind clergyman had presented to her, nicely framed, as a wedding gift, allall had gone already to the little pawn-shop in the neighbouring town);-there was but her wedding ring now in her possession of any value. Could she part with it? No, no! impossible! Was she driven really to this? Oh, hard, hard! it surely, surely could not be! But then the children's bread, how could she get that? Annie's little pinched white face rose up before

her, and the plaintive cry, "Me so hungry, mammy," was heard again, and the decision was made. The ring, that ring which he had given her when he promised to love and cherish her always,-that ring which had never been removed since that morning when the dear old clergyman had pronounced George Williams and Ellen Wright man and wife,—that ring must go to buy the children bread; better part with it than let them starve.

Old Mr. Norton was just putting up the shutters of his little shop, when a poor thinly-clad woman addressed him.

"Am I too late, sir? I want to put my wedding ring in pawn." The voice quivered a little, but the woman's eyes were firmly fixed upon the old pawnbroker's face.

"Well, no, I guess not," he replied, staring at her somewhat severely. "It's not going for drink, ma'am, is it? if so, I beg to decline."

"Oh, no!" said Mrs. Williams. "You've got most of my other things, sir, if you remember,-it's 'cause we're so badly off this winter." Even to him the poor wife could not upbraid her husband.

"Very well!" said the old man. "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Williams, but folks will talk you know; let's look at it.-Ah! it was a good one enough when new; humph,-how much can I allow you on it? well,