REDEMPTION.
87
It was a boy perhaps twelve years of age, his coarse black hair unconfined by the usual turban, matted with filth and bristling in every direction like the quills of a porcupine, and a very dirty cloth of plaided cotton disposed in the most slovenly manner about his person. "Does Jesus Christ live here?" he inquired, scarcely pausing for breath, though slackening his pace a little as he made his way, uninvited, up the steps, and crouched at the lady's feet. "What do you want of Jesus Christ," inquired the lady. "I want to see him, I want to confess to him." "Why what have you been doing that you want
