‘Well,’ continued Wilderspin, ’on that memorable morning I was impressed to walk down the street towards Temple Bar.  I was passing close to the wall to escape the glare of the sun, when I was stopped suddenly by a sight which I knew could only have been sent to me in that hour of perplexity by her who had said that Jesus would let her look down and watch her boy.  Moreover, at that moment the noise of the Strand seemed to cease in my ears, which were rilled with the music I love best—­the only music that I have patience to listen to—­the tinkle of a black-smith’s anvil.’

‘Blacksmith’s anvil in the Strand?’ said Sleaford.

’It was from heaven, my lord, that the music fell like rain; it was a sign from Mary Wilderspin who lives there.’

‘For God’s sake be quick!’ I exclaimed.  ‘Where was it?’

’At the corner of Essex Street.  A bright-eyed, bright-haired girl in rags was standing bare-headed, holding out boxes of matches for sale, and murmuring words of Scripture.  This she was doing quite mechanically, as it seemed, and unobservant of the crowd passing by,—­individuals of whom would stop for a moment to look at her; some with eyes of pure admiration and some with other eyes.  The squalid attire in which she was clothed seemed to add to her beauty.’

‘My poor Winnie!’ I murmured, entirely overcome.

’She seemed to take as little heed of the heat and glare as of the people, but stood there looking before her, murmuring texts from Scripture as though she were communing with the spiritual world.  Her eyes shook and glittered in the sunshine; they seemed to emit lights from behind the black lashes surrounding them; the ruddy lips were quivering.  There was an innocence about her brow, and yet a mystic wonder in her eyes which formed a mingling of the child-like with the maidenly such as—­’

‘Man! man! would you kill me with your description?’ I cried.  Then grasping Wilderspin’s hand, I said, ’But,—­but was she begging, Wilderspin?  Not literally begging!  My Winnie! my poor Winnie!’

My mother looked at me.  The gaze was full of a painful interest; but she recognised that between me and her there now was rolling an infinite sea or emotion, and her eyes drooped before mine as though she had suddenly invaded the privacy of a stranger.

‘She was offering matches for sale,’ said Wilderspin.

‘Winnie!  Winnie!  Winnie!’ I murmured.  ’Did she seem emaciated, Wilderspin?  Did she seem as though she wanted food?’

‘Heaven, no!’ exclaimed my mother.

‘No,’ replied Wilderspin firmly.  ’On that point who is a better judge than the painter of “Faith and Love”?  She did not want food.  The colour of the skin was not—­was not—­such as I have seen—­when a woman is dying for want of food.’

’God bless you, Wilderspin, God bless you!  But what then?—­what followed?’

’Well, Mr. Aylwin, I stood for some time gazing at her, muttering thanks to my mother for what I had found.  I then went up to her, and asked her for a box of matches.  She held me out a box, mechanically, as it seemed, and, when I had taken it of her, she held out her hand just as though she had been a real earthly beggar-girl; but that was part of the beneficent illusion of Heaven.’