"Will he come?"
A faint voice came up from a low bed in one corner, seen by the very dim light of a miserable lamp.
That voice. I could not be mistaken. I could not enter. Let me wait a moment in the open air, for there is a choking sensation coming over me.
"Come in," said my friend.
"Will he come?"
Two hands were stretched out imploringly towards the Missionary, as the sound of his voice was recognised.
"She is much weaker to-night," said her mother, in quite a lady-like manner, for the sense of her drunken wrong to her dying child had kept her sober, ever since she had been sick; "but she is quite delirious, and all the time talking about that man who spoke kindly to her one night in the Park, and gave her money to buy bread."
"Will he come?"
"Yes, yes; through the guidance of the good spirit that rules the world, and leads us by unseen paths, through dark places, for His own wise purposes, he has come."
The little emaciated form started up in bed, and a pair of beautiful, soft blue eyes glanced around the room, peering through the semi-darkness, as if in search of something heard but unseen.