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N endless review they pass before me, as I look back. Fairfaced, young, of gentle mien; or sour, disheveled, anxious, lean, mysterious, fat—all sorts, sizes and conditions, with only this one thing in common, that they were down on their luck. Not all, indeed, were consciously that. Some felt themselves to be securely mounting the first rung of the long ladder of success, and hope shone visibly in their eager faces. But most of them were practically down and out, drifts among the world's human wastage.

At the very top of the list was Mrs. Horton, a Heaven-sent angel. She did our washing between 8.30 and 12.30 of a Tuesday morning, taking time for only one breakfast between. She made no trouble in the kitchen, never gossiped, was careful of the soap and other perishables, with that carefulness bed rocked in character, of which we get so few examples in these troublous times. But then,