Mrs Frog sinks Deeper and Deeper.

“Nobody cares,” said poor Mrs Frog, one raw afternoon in November, as she entered her miserable dwelling, where the main pieces of furniture were a rickety table, a broken chair, and a heap of straw, while the minor pieces were so insignificant as to be unworthy of mention. There was no fire in the grate, no bread in the cupboard, little fresh air in the room and less light, though there was a broken unlighted candle stuck in the mouth of a quart bottle which gave promise of light in the future—light enough at least to penetrate the November fog which had filled the room as if it had been endued with a pitying desire to throw a veil over such degradation and misery.

We say degradation, for Mrs Frog had of late taken to “the bottle” as a last solace in her extreme misery, and the expression of her face, as she cowered on a low stool beside the empty grate and drew the shred of tartan shawl round her shivering form, showed all too clearly that she was at that time under its influence. She had been down to the river again, more than once, and had gazed into its dark waters until she had very nearly made up her mind to take the desperate leap, but God in mercy had hitherto interposed. At one time a policeman had passed with his weary “move on”—though sometimes he had not the heart to enforce his order. More frequently a little baby-face had looked up from the river with a smile, and sent her away to the well-known street where she would sit in the familiar door-step watching the shadows on the window-blind until cold and sorrow drove her to the gin-palace to seek for the miserable comfort to be found there.

Whatever that comfort might amount to, it did not last long, for, on the night of which we write, she had been to the palace, had got all the comfort that was to be had out of it, and returned to her desolate home more wretched than ever, to sit down, as we have seen, and murmur, almost fiercely, “Nobody cares.”

For a time she sat silent and motionless, while the deepening shadows gathered round her, as if they had united with all the rest to intensify the poor creature’s woe.

Presently she began to mutter to herself aloud—

“What’s the use o’ your religion when it comes to this? What sort of religion is in the hearts of these,” (she pursed her lips, and paused for an expressive word, but found none), “these rich folk in their silks and satins and broadcloth, with more than they can use, an’ feedin’ their pampered cats and dogs on what would be wealth to the likes o’ me! Religion! bah!”

She stopped, for a Voice within her said as plainly as if it had spoken out: “Who gave you the sixpence the other day, and looked after you with a tender, pitying glance as you hurried away to the gin-shop without so much as stopping to say ‘Thank you’? She wore silks, didn’t she?”

“Ah, but there’s not many like that,” replied the poor woman, mentally, for the powers of good and evil were fighting fiercely within her just then.

“How do you know there are not many like that?” demanded the Voice.

“Well, but all the rich are not like that,” said Mrs Frog.

The Voice made no reply to that!

Again she sat silent for some time, save that a low moan escaped her occasionally, for she was very cold and very hungry, having spent the last few pence, which might have given her a meal, in drink; and the re-action of the poison helped to depress her. The evil spirit seemed to gain the mastery at this point, to judge from her muttered words.

“Nothing to eat, nothing to drink, no work to be got, Hetty laid up in hospital, Ned in prison, Bobby gone to the bad again instead of goin’ to Canada, and—nobody cares—”

“What about baby?” asked the Voice.

This time it was Mrs Frog’s turn to make no reply! in a few minutes she seemed to become desperate, for, rising hastily, she went out, shut the door with a bang, locked it, and set out on the familiar journey to the gin-shop.

She had not far to go. It was at the corner. If it had not been at that corner, there was one to be found at the next—and the next—and the next again, and so on all round; so that, rushing past, as people sometimes do when endeavouring to avoid a danger, would have been of little or no avail in this case. But there was a very potent influence of a negative kind in her favour. She had no money! Recollecting this when she had nearly reached the door, she turned aside, and ran swiftly to the old door-step, where she sat down and hid her face in her hands.

A heavy footstep sounded at her side the next moment. She looked quickly up. It was a policeman. He did not apply the expected words—“move on.” He was a man under whose blue uniform beat a tender and sympathetic heart. In fact, he was Number 666—changed from some cause that we cannot explain, and do not understand—from the Metropolitan to the City Police Force. His number also had been changed, but we refuse to be trammelled by police regulations. Number 666 he was and shall remain in this tale to the end of the chapter!

Instead of ordering the poor woman to go away, Giles was searching his pockets for a penny, when to his intense surprise he received a blow on the chest, and then a slap on the face!

Poor Mrs Frog, misjudging his intentions, and roused to a fit of temporary insanity by her wrongs and sorrows, sprang at her supposed foe like a wildcat. She was naturally a strong woman, and violent passion lent her unusual strength.

Oh! it was pitiful to witness the struggle that ensued!—to see a woman, forgetful of sex and everything else, striving with all her might to bite, scratch, and kick, while her hair tumbled down, and her bonnet and shawl falling off made more apparent the insufficiency of the rags with which she was covered.

Strong as he was, Giles received several ugly scratches and bites before he could effectually restrain her. Fortunately, there were no passers-by in the quiet street, and, therefore, no crowd assembled.

“My poor woman,” said Giles, when he had her fast, “do keep quiet. I’m going to do you no harm. God help you, I was goin’ to give you a copper when you flew at me so. Come, you’d better go with me to the station, for you’re not fit to take care of yourself.”

Whether it was the tender tone of Giles’s voice, or the words that he uttered, or the strength of his grasp that subdued Mrs Frog, we cannot tell, but she gave in suddenly, hung down her head, and allowed her captor to do as he pleased. Seeing this, he carefully replaced her bonnet on her head, drew the old shawl quite tenderly over her shoulders, and led her gently away.

Before they had got the length of the main thoroughfare, however, a female of a quiet, respectable appearance met them.

“Mrs Frog!” she exclaimed, in amazement, stopping suddenly before them.

“If you know her, ma’am, perhaps you may direct me to her home.”

“I know her well,” said the female, who was none other than the Bible-nurse who visited the sick of that district; “if you have not arrested her for—for—”

“Oh no, madam,” interrupted Giles, “I have not arrested her at all, but she seems to be unwell, and I was merely assisting her.”

“Oh! then give her over to me, please. I know where she lives, and will take care of her.”

Giles politely handed his charge over, and went on his way, sincerely hoping that the next to demand his care would be a man.

The Bible-woman drew the arm of poor Mrs Frog through her own, and in a few minutes stood beside her in the desolate home.

“Nobody cares,” muttered the wretched woman as she sank in apathy on her stool and leaned her head against the wall.

“You are wrong, dear Mrs Frog. I care, for one, else I should not be here. Many other Christian people would care, too, if they knew of your sufferings; but, above all, God cares. Have you carried your troubles to Him?”

“Why should I? He has long ago forsaken me.”

“Is it not, dear friend, that you have forsaken Him? Jesus says, as plain as words can put it, ‘Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.’ You tell me it is of no use to go to Him, and you don’t go, and then you complain that He has forsaken you! Where is my friend Hetty?”

“In hospital.”

“Indeed! I have been here several times lately to inquire, but have always found your door locked. Your husband—”

“He’s in prison, and Bobby’s gone to the bad,” said Mrs Frog, still in a tone of sulky defiance.

“I see no sign of food,” said the Bible-nurse, glancing quickly round; “are you hungry?”

“Hungry!” exclaimed the woman fiercely, “I’ve tasted nothin’ at all since yesterday.”

“Poor thing!” said the Bible-nurse in a low tone; “come—come with me. I don’t say more. You cannot speak while you are famishing. Stay, first one word—” She paused and looked up. She did not kneel; she did not clasp her hands or shut her eyes, but, with one hand on the door-latch, and the other grasping the poor woman’s wrist, she prayed—

“God bless and comfort poor Mrs Frog, for Jesus’ sake.”

Then she hurried, without uttering a word, to the Institution in George Yard. The door happened to be open, and the figure of a man with white hair and a kind face was seen within.

Entering, the Bible-nurse whispered to this man. Another moment and Mrs Frog was seated at a long deal table with a comfortable fire at her back, a basin of warm soup, and a lump of loaf bread before her. The Bible-nurse sat by and looked on.

“Somebody cares a little, don’t you think?” she whispered, when the starving woman made a brief pause for breath.

“Yes, thank God,” answered Mrs Frog, returning to the meal as though she feared that some one might still snatch it from her thin lips before she got it all down.

When it was finished the Bible-nurse led Mrs Frog into another room.

“You feel better—stronger?” she asked.

“Yes, much better—thank you, and quite able to go home.”

“There is no occasion for you to go home to-night; you may sleep there,” (pointing to a corner), “but I would like to pray with you now, and read a verse or two.”

Mrs Frog submitted, while her friend read to her words of comfort; pleaded that pardon and deliverance might be extended, and gave her loving words of counsel. Then the poor creature lay down in her corner, drew a warm blanket over her, and slept with a degree of comfort that she had not enjoyed for many a day.

When it was said by Mrs Frog that her son Bobby had gone to the bad, it must not be supposed that any very serious change had come over him. As that little waif had once said of himself, when in a penitent mood, he was about as bad as he could be, so couldn’t grow much badder. But when his sister lost her situation in the firm that paid her such splendid wages, and fell ill, and went into hospital in consequence, he lost heart, and had a relapse of wickedness. He grew savage with regard to life in general, and committed a petty theft, which, although not discovered, necessitated his absence from home for a time. It was while he was away that the scene which we have just described took place.

On the very next day he returned, and it so happened that on the same day Hetty was discharged from hospital “cured.” That is to say, she left the place a thin, tottering, pallid shadow, but with no particular form of organic disease about her.

She and her mother had received some food from one who cared for them, through the Bible-nurse.

“Mother, you’ve been drinkin’ again,” said Hetty, looking earnestly at her parent’s eyes.

“Well, dear,” pleaded Mrs............