"And do you think, Tom, that the rag-pickers would murder a fellow-creature who trespassed, as they call it, upon their grounds, without compunction of conscience?"
"Conscience, sir, what do they know about conscience? The 'Padre' keeps their conscience."
"But the law, is there no law in this Christian City?"
"Law, pshaw! what has your book-law to do with rag-pickers' law?"
"True enough; or 'father confessors,' either."
The next morning Tom made his report. At first it was a positive refusal. "She can make sixpence a day, and pick up enough to eat."
"Well then she shall pay you sixpence a day. She can soon learn to sew and earn more than that. Juliana does it every day."
"But she shall not stay there nights. They will make a Protestant of her."
"That was not the sticking point," says Tom, "if she stays here, she cannot make a —— of her there. The best I could do was to let her go home nights and come days. That is better than nothing. The poor little thing won't have to go begging, and be burned, and kicked, and vomited with filthy tobacco cuds, and then whipped if she don't bring home sixpence every night for her mother to buy rum with. If she cannot earn it here at first, I will, and we will get her away entirely, after a while."
Noble Tom! Glorious good boy! What a heart! How long is it since thou wert as one of them, kicked and cuffed, and groveling drunk in the gutter? Who thought then that thy rags and filth covered such a heart? Who knew of the virtuous lessons given thee by a pious mother; and how, after years of forgetfulness, sin, wretchedness, misery, that that good seed would vegetate and bring forth such sweet flowers and good fruit, as we are now tasting in these good deeds and kind words. What if nine of the fallen whom we lift up, fall back again? so that one stand, who shall refuse to lend a helping hand? Let us lift up the lowly and make the haughty humble. Why should they do evil?