“Oh! there was hope for such men indeed!” exclaimed Neddy, the moisture rising into his eyes. “There must have been good in them, papa, and I should not wonder if some of them turned out really fine fellows.”
“I have no doubt of it,” said his father with a smile.
“And that poor boy—yes, I hope that he may amend. Shall we hear anything more of him, papa?”
“You know that we go out of town to-morrow. On my return I shall make inquiries regarding him at the Ragged School, and if I find that he is improving under the instruction which he will receive, I shall try to do something for him.”
“May I go with you?” said Neddy eagerly, “I should like to visit the school.”
“I think that I shall take you with me,” replied his father.
“What a glorious thing it is,” exclaimed the boy after a pause, “to raise ragged schools and reformatories, to give the poor, the ignorant, and the wicked, a chance of becoming honest and happy! How I should like to build one myself!”
“It would be more practicable for you,” observed the gentleman, smiling as he rose from his seat, “to support those which are built already.”[3]
“But, papa, I can do so little!”
“Every little helps, my son; the vast ocean is made up of drops. You may do something yourself, and try to interest others in the cause of the desolate poor. Were all the children of the middle classes in England to give each but one penny a-week, no wretched boy need wander about desolate in London, to perish both here and hereafter because no one cared for his soul!”