There, sir, every drop of water we've got to wind up from the
bottom of that well.'

points in old buildings like these, and Mr. Stansfield's hint had fallen upon attentive ears.

Are you wanting any one, sir?' asked Susan Lambert, as she opened her door, and found a stranger standing in the passage.

'No; I only want to see the place.'

'Are you going to buy it?' she asked. 'We've heard tell that Moseley wants to sell it, and it were good news to us; for he's a terrible hard man, takes all and gives nought. If folk doesn't like the wet coming on to their beds in the attics, or the drains flushing over their floor in these downstair rooms, as they're sure to do every time it rains, he tells 'em to go elsewhere, and not be making complaints to him. If they don't like it they can leave it, says he: but he knows they can't,

Eight per Cent.

for the town is crowded with folk! There's nothing cheaper than this street, and no one comes here till they can't afford to go elsewhere.'

'What rent do you pay?' asked Mr. Cowen.

'It's not much,' said Mrs. Lambert, evading the question; for she thought that if this gentleman were a possible purchaser, it might be as well not to enlighten him on the rentals charged by Moseley. It's not much, and we none of us complain of the money. If only he'd do what was wanting we'd not grumble.'

'I am not going to buy the houses,' said Mr. Cowen ; indeed, they are sold already: but as I know the man who has bought them, I came to see his purchase.'

'Who is he, sir? Is it Mr. Lloyde?'

'No.'

'They did say as he would have them, but I knew there was no such luck. We'll have to muddle along same as we have done.'

'I hope not,' said Mr. Cowen; the man who has bought them is anxious to improve them, and if you and he work together a good deal may be done.'

Our working's no good. If he has money to spend he may make a good job of it, else he'd best leave it alone. Why, sir, there was a chap round here last week looking at the place; he went up and down and saw it all, and then he comes out and talks about it being a tidy place if the walls were whitewashed and the floors scrubbed. You should have heard the women a-laughing at him-they calls him "Whitewash," not knowing his name. But he should have given his mind to where the water was to come from before he talked about cleaning.'

'Ah, I thought so! The water is always wrong in these old houses. Where do you get it?'

'Come and see, sir.'

Mrs. Lambert went down the passage to another door, which opened on a small paved court. The high walls of the surrounding houses closed it in on every side. Lines of tattered garments hung across it, but no breath of air came down to stir their dripping folds.

'Why do they put out clothes in the rain?' exclaimed Mr. Cowen. 'They're obliged to keep their days, wet or dry. It's the frontattic's turn in the yard, and they won't get another chance for a week; and it seems to sweeten things to hang them out a bit, even if they don't dry.'

Mr. Cowen thought of the fresh breezes which came sweeping across his own fields, and sighed. God's commonest gifts seemed stinted to these poor people.

And so in truth they were. For, shut out from all free circulation of air, they were even worse off for the other element of water.

A windlass and a bucket stood in the centre of the yard, and the many coils of rope showed that the well was deep below the surface.

There, sir, every drop of water we've got to wind up from the bottom of that well, and it's not many of us as can manage more than one bucket in the day. It's a terrible hard pull to draw it up.'

'And is there no pump-nothing but this well?' inquired Mr. Cowen, as he advanced to the edge and gazed down into it. The sides were moss-grown towards the top, but lower down oozy green weed

Eight per Cent.

clung to the sides, and here and there stains of different colours showed that other substances found their way into the water. Nor was their origin far to seek. Two or three drains crossed the yard, or rather tried to do so, for they lost themselves after travelling for a few feet in slimy pools, which sank gradually out of sight between the stones. 'Is there nothing but this well to supply both houses?'

'Nothing, sir. And you may guess there's not much chance to get cleaning done, with the water so far to fetch.'

'And have you lived here long,' asked the gentleman, as he turned from the noisome court to the still more noisome house.

'Seven years, sir; longer nor most anybody in the lodgings. Most folk moves on after a bit; either they gets a stroke of luck and can afford better rooms, or they're sold up and turned out in the streets: they mostly does one or the other, but we've stuck on. Not having any children left, it comes easier to me to earn the rent than it does to some of 'em, and victuals for one don't cost much.'

'But isn't your husband alive, or is he ill and out of work?' 'Bless you, there's nothing amiss with him! He puddles, he does, and gets his two pound regular when he's in the mind to earn it. But we don't take no account of the men-folk earning nothing to speak on; they'd not be here long if they brought home their money, but there's not many wives in Stour Street as sees the colour of it. It's the women as has to earn the rent and find the victuals, and where there's a family it comes hard. It's the drink does it, sir; that and nothing else. My man was steady once, and we were ever so comfortable, had a tidy cottage of our own, and his money brought home regular as Saturday night come round.'

And how did he change so sadly?'

'Why, sir, he were a very strong man, and his mates never let him rest till he took up the puddling-work. You know, sir, it isn't every one as can stand it; but the wages being so high, it tempts folk. That was the worst job as ever he did, though it did bring in a lot of money, for it led him to the drink, sir-it does with most of them; they're bound to drink something, and it's not many as can keep off beer. Ben couldn't, and so we come down and down till we come here, and there's nothing lower except it be the workhouse.'

เ And your children?'

'They went, sir, all of them. There was two alive when we come here, but the smells, and the bad water, and the fever, soon took 'em off; and seeing what a life we'd come to lead, I was almost willing to let 'em go. Ben gets wild when he's in drink, and though he was fond of 'em in a sort of way when he was himself, he banged 'em about terrible when he were fresh. They're better away. I tells our neighbour, Jenny Clarkson, as lives in the next room, that she'll be more content when the little one is gone safe out of the road; for it frets a woman, sir, to have the children dropped upon when the father is a bit fresh: but she don't seem to see it in that way, though her man is ever so much worse than Ben, and do make awful rows when the drink is in him.'

'Poor thing!' said the Vicar, sorrowfully. Are there many such cases here?' for he wanted to know the history of these sad dwellings. 'Ah, sir, it's all the same tale. If it weren't for the drink these

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lodgings would stand empty. But it brings folk down, and then what can men do but drink as lives in holes like these? If they hasn't done it afore, they're safe to go to the publics when they comes here. What with the smells, and the noise, and the dirt, and the crowding, there isn't much to keep them at home; and there's plenty of publics handy! Some of the women are not far behind their husbands, and who's to wonder if they do take a drop of comfort now and then? We're a bad lot in Stour Street, we are,' concluded Mrs. Lambert, looking steadily at the clergyman, who, contrary to her experience of parsons, had not interrupted her recital by exclamations of distress and evidences of being shocked and horrified by what he heard.

I am afraid you are,' he said quietly; and that you have very little to help you to be better. Everything seems against you.'

You may say that,' assented Mrs. Lambert; yet when some of the young parsons comes round, they do seem terrible put about that we don't come to church, and behave ourselves. And if they come to know a bit of what goes on here, they look that shocked that a body doesn't know how to speak to them; and folk doesn't like that, it makes 'em feel worse nor they were before. So they don't get along much in Stour Street. You'd do better nor them,' she continued.

Mr. Cowen smiled. Perhaps I shall have a chance of trying.' Then he wished Mrs. Lambert good-bye, and went to the Vicar of Hailesworth, after which he called upon the young curate in whose district Stour Street was included, and in the course of conversation he mentioned his visit, and the reason that had led to it.

Horrible places!' exclaimed the young man; 'everything that's bad goes on in those houses; and it's impossible to get at the people. I am sorry to hear that one of your parishioners has burdened himself with such a nest of iniquity.'

'So am I. And he has no notion of what he has done, but thinks he can purify the rooms and improve the tenants, and at the same time make a large percentage on the purchase-money. He is a good fellow, and I am much interested to see how he carries on his plans about these houses; so I thought you would not object to my looking in upon the people now and then when I am in Hailesworth. It reminds me of my London work; I had plenty of such places and people in town.' 'I wish you'd take them altogether,' said the young man earnestly. 'I can't do them any good. I don't understand them, and they seem to know it, and they horrify me with tales of what goes on.'

'Perhaps you let them see it,' said the Vicar of Barnshill. I used to when I began to work in London, but I found that if they once saw I was shocked I never did much with them afterwards; they never got over it. I suppose the very worst have some self-esteem left, some rag of self-respect, and an expression of what we must feel when we see such sin as theirs grates upon them and makes them savage.'

'Perhaps so,' replied the curate thoughtfully; it never struck me before besides,' he continued, our Lord never showed disgust at sin, even the lowest. He was only sorry, unutterably sorry. Thank you, Mr. Cowen; you have shown me one cause of my failure among these poor lost souls, whom I do so long to bring back to Christ: perhaps I shall do better for the future.'

(To be continued.)

B

Crocodiles in India.

R. DAY, in his report on the fisheries of India, gives an interesting notice of the extent to which crocodiles will destroy fish. There are two distinct genera of crocodiles in India. The first of these is the true fish-eating crocodile (Gavialis Gangeticus, Gmelin), which attains upwards of 20 ft. in length, and is found in the Indus, the Ganges, and other large rivers. This species has a long and slender snout; it is usually timid of man, except when he invades the place where its eggs are deposited in the sand. It does not appear to feed on carrion; but fish, turtles, and tortoises form its diet. In 1868 it was one of the sights at Cuttack to watch these enormous reptiles feeding below the irrigation weir, which hindered the upward ascent of the breeding fish. The long brown snouts of the crocodiles would be seen rising to the surface of the water, with a fish cross-wise in their jaws. Their finny prey was flung up into the air by a toss of the head, and descending head foremost, fell into the captors' comparatively small mouths.

Crocodiles are very prolific. A single gun has been known to destroy sixty-nine out of one brood in three hours' shooting. Some native fishermen, when asked whether they ever kill the crocodiles, protested against such a course. Their argument was, 'Are we not