“Assuredly, my poor girl. He says ‘Come unto me,’ and ‘Whosoever will,’ let him come. If you are willing, there is no doubt about His willingness. The difficulty only lies with you, not with Him. Where do you live?”
“I have no home,” sobbed the girl; “I have run away from my home, and have no place to lay my head in here. But oh! sir, I want to be saved!”
The lame man looked with the deepest commiseration into the appealing eyes. “Come,” he said, “walk with me. I will tell you of One who had no place where to lay His head.”
She took his arm without a word, and the two hurried through the still crowded streets. Arrived at his own door, the lame man knocked. It was opened by a fair, soft, and exceedingly pretty little woman of about thirty years of age, whose fresh face was the very personification of goodness.
“Why, Jim!” she exclaimed, looking at the girl in surprise.
“Here we are, Molly,” exclaimed the lame man, bustling into a snug room in which a fire was blazing, and cheering preparations for tea were going on, “and I’ve brought a friend to spend the night with us. There’s plenty of room on your floor for a shake-down, eh? This is my sister,” he added turning to the girl, “Mary Thorogood, but we always call her Molly. She has come to visit me this Christmas—much against her will, I believe, she’s so fond of the old folk at home. Come now, take her into your room, Molly; make her comfortable, and then we’ll have tea.”
Molly took the girl into her room. Returning a moment later for something forgotten, she was touched on the shoulder by her brother, who whispered low in her ear:—
“A brand, Molly dear, plucked from the burning.”
Molly turned her eyes upon her brother with a glad smile as she re-entered her little room, and shut the door.