insipid girl who needed to be taken care of; as it was; she had "gone wrong." The excellent Rector of St. Michael's felt that she must be awakened.
"You are the girl Elizabeth?" he said.
"I'm 'Lizabeth Barnes," she answered, pulling at the hem of her child's small gown, "but folks nivver calls me nowt but Liz."
Her visitor pointed to a chair considerately. "Sit down," he said, "I want to talk to you."
Liz obeyed him; but her pretty, weak face told its own story of distaste and hysterical shrinking. She let the baby lie upon her lap; her lingers were busy plaiting up folds of the little gown.
"I dunnot want to be talked to," she whimpered. "I dunnot know as talk can do folk as is i' trouble any good—an' th' trouble's bad enow wi'out talk."
"We must remember whence the trouble comes," answered the minister, "and if the root lies in ourselves, and springs from our own sin, we must bear our cross meekly, and carry our sorrows and iniquities to the fountain head. We must ask for grace, and—and sanctification of spirit."
"I dunnot know nowt about th' fountain head," sobbed Liz aggrieved. "I amna religious an' I canna see as such loike helps foak. No Methody nivver did nowt for me when I war i' trouble an' want. Joan Lowrie is na a Methody."
"If you mean that the young woman is in an unawakened condition, I am sorry to hear it," with increased gravity of demeanor. "Without the redeeming blood how are we to find peace? If you had clung to the Cross you would have been spared all this sin and shame. You must know, my girl, that this," with a motion
