When they were finished he brought them to me and waited in my office for some time until I came, in order that I should pay him for them. I thought this rather strange, as he generally sent my shoes to me by his assistant and called a week or so later himself to collect the bill; but, thinking his illness had prevented him from making collections and that he was in need of money, I paid him at once without question, and after having told me that he felt better he said good day and went away.

The next morning, as I walked down the narrow street, a little gamin ran excitedly up to me, and, pointing to the closed door of the little shoemaker's shop, where the dingy shutters were still up, he whispered hoarsely, "He's shot his-self," and, before I could question him further, dived down a side alley leading to a row of tenements.

I crossed over to where the policeman paced back and forth before the door, only to have the sad information confirmed by the shoemaker's assistant, who told me that after the little man had delivered my shoes he seemed more cheerful than he had been for a month, and had told him that he might close the shop early that night and have the evening to himself. It seems that he had bought a pistol with the money I had paid him for my new shoes, and was determined to end his life rather than, because of his illness, become a public charge in a foreign country

where he had no friends excepting the little gamins in the streets.

That evening there was a solemn little gathering under the arch of the Bridge, and at about the time they were used to sing each night a barefooted procession of little street gamins filed out from under the dark archway and moved up the street until they were in front of the little shop. Then, with bared heads and with grimy faces, down which the tears were trickling, upturned to the dark closed shutters behind which the little shoemaker lay so quietly, they sang "The Bells of Aberdovey," and as I paused under the shadow of a doorway in the quiet street I could hardly believe that it was the hard and ragged little crew that I knew so well who were singing so tenderly the little Welshman's favorite song:

I first heard them years ago

When, careless and light hearted,
I thought not of coming woe,

Nor of bright days departed;
Now those hours are past and gone,
When the strife of life is done,
Peace is found in heaven alone,'

Say the bells of Aberdovey. As the last word faded away they turned and dispersed as quietly as they had come. Unasked they had tendered the only tribute in their power to the memory of the little cobbler who had been so kind to them. Had they been little princes instead of little ragamuf fins, they could have done no more.

NE afternoon last summer the bell of the City Mission church-house, in Rivington Street received several violent jerks. On opening the door, a woman in great excitement said, "Where is the minister? I must see him right away!" The sexton brought Mrs. Korbey to my study. She immediately broke out, "Oh! Mister minister, my husband is dying and I don't want him to go

without prayers!" She then in the same breath informed me that she was a Roman Catholic, but her husband was a Protestant, and she wanted him to die with the last rites of his church. I immediately accompanied Mrs. Korbey to a basement in Rivington Street. The Korbeys lived in a kitchen and bedroom. The bedroom contained no windows, and the black hole in which I found the sick man contrasted strangely with the brilliant sunlight of the

street. As soon as my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, I saw that Korbey was in no immediate danger of dying. I said, "How do you feel to day? He took me for the doctor and said, "Doctor, my old woman here is greatly disturbed about me and said she would send for a minister, but I don't think it is necessary just yet."

I saw that I must first get the old man's confidence if I was to do him any good. So I said, “I am not a doctor, I am a minister, and as your wife informed me that you were sick I thought I would run over and see you; sick people, you know, are so much shut off from the outside world that it sometimes does them good to see a friend." As I made no immediate preparation to pray with Korbey, or to hold up before him the sins of his past life, the old man soon felt at ease.

"What is your business, Mr. Korbey?" I asked. With a certain air of triumph he replied, "I am an actor, sir." He then began to talk in a most familiar strain about all the great theatrical lights of the past fifty years.

He knew Macready, Edwin Forrest, the elder Booth, and many other stage celebrities. I finally asked what plays Mr. Korbey had most frequently appeared in. For a moment he seemed somewhat perplexed, but said:

"Well, I'm not exactly an actor that acts himself, but I am always around to help them. You see I am handy with the brush. In a few minutes I can make a dead level prairie look like a forest or a mountain region; I can paint rivers and houses so that, at a distance, you can hardly tell them from real rivers and real houses. Then, besides, when I was a young fellow I was good at climbing, and when there was a hitch in the scenery I was just the man to straighten things out. When we were in New Orleans many years ago, I fell from a beam, at the top of the curtain, and hurt my head; if it had not been for that accident I would be on the stage now, and a great actor too."

"Mr. Korbey," I said, "you know Shakespeare says, 'All the world's a stage, and all men and women merely players.' We will all soon take part in the last act, the curtain will be rung

down, the masks and finery will be laid aside, lords and ladies, kings and queens will appear just as they are. You are a poor, sick, old man; shall I kneel down by your bed and ask Him who is above us all to reach down His strong hand to help you?"

Korbey assented, he folded his hands and closed his eyes. When I arose to go, Korbey put his hand on his heart and said, "Thank you, sir; that did me good. I feel easier in here. Please come again."

The

Two days later, when I was holding an afternoon service, Mrs. Korbey rushed into the church and said to the sexton: "Tell the minister to come immediately, the old man is going, sure!" At the close of my service I went to the basement in Rivington Street. On entering the hall, I heard loud noises proceed from Korbey's bedroom. various names of the Deity were used in such rapid succession that I thought Korbey was earnestly praying; but, to my great astonishment, he was sitting up in bed furiously brandishing a club and pouring out a volley of oaths at his son-in-law, who was in the kitchen just behind the bedroom door. fortunate for the young man that Korbey was partly paralyzed. Before he noticed my entrance he hurled the club with terrific force through the halfopened door. Mrs. Korbey and her daughter were crying, and the neighbors, attracted by the noise, were filling the hall. My presence restored peace. I told Korbey that all the prayers in the world would be of no avail for a man who showed such an ugly temper.

It was

"I am sorry you seen what happened," he said, "but it is good for him that my legs have no life in them, or I would pitch him in the street, because he is a lazy loafer and won't support my daughter." I read a few words of the great Teacher about forgiveness and asked Korbey to repeat the Lord's Prayer after me. Perhaps I paused a little when I came to the words, "Forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors." He went through the prayer without a break and before I left said, "Don't be angry with me; since I hurt my head I get easily excited."

A few days later when I called at the

Korbeys', I witnessed a kind of family reunion in the dark bedroom. Mr. Korbey was sitting up in bed reading a letter. His wife held a little kerosene lamp, which lit up the letter and her own dull red, round face. The sonin-law, a regulation East Side tough, and his wife, a slovenly young woman, were eagerly bending over the bed, listening to the old man as he slowly stumbled his way through the letter. No one had heard my knock at the kitchen-door; so I walked in. When Mrs. Korbey saw me, she took hold of my arm and pulled me into the bedroom and in peremptory tones commanded her husband to give the minister the letter. While I read, every member of the family listened with intense eagerness. It was a communication from a claim lawyer, who informed Korbey that there was a sum of money, at a certain place, which belonged to Mr. James Korbey, but which he could only obtain through the assistance of legal aid. The writer volunteered to secure the entire sum, provided it was equally divided between himself and Mr. Korbey. The family were eager to accept this proposition, as none of them had the slightest knowledge of this secret fortune.

I suggested that there were other lawyers in the world besides the writer of that letter. If no one else could possibly find out the secret now in this man's possession, it might be advisable to accept his terms, but I counselled a little delay. Mrs. Korbey had told me that, since her husband had fallen from the scenery of a theatre in New Orleans many years ago, he had been very excitable and his memory had also been strangely affected. The only way in which he ever referred to past events was by being in some way reminded of them. Guided by this suggestion I determined that my conversation with Korbey should serve as a kind of mental search-light to reveal that which lay forgotten in the deep recesses of the old man's memory. I hoped that, by the law of association of ideas, I should be able to stimulate his weakened intellect and get the knowledge which the claim lawyer had obtained by means unknown to me. I asked many ques

tions about the old man's parents and their circumstances, but all to no purpose.

Korbey's father had been a sailor; the family had never had any means; both parents had died when Korbey was quite a young lad, so that he was obliged to shift for himself. He had only one greater enjoyment in life than witnessing a play, and that was to be on the stage, helping the players. As a rude scenic artist he was invaluable, and he was ever eager to lead imaginary mobs against painted forts and castles and leap on the prostrate bodies of tyrants or kings, and at times he had made a good deal of money.

"Mr. Korbey," I asked, "when you were making so much money, what did you do with it? Did you ever put any money in the bank?"

The moment I mentioned the word bank, he fairly screamed: "Yes! I put some money in the bank and I lost the book." Like a long-forgotten dream it all flashed on his mind in a moment. More than forty years ago he had a small bank account. While in New Orleans he lost the bank-book. At first he had worried about it and determined to inform the bank officials when he returned to New York. After the accident, which had impaired his memory, he had altogether ceased to think of his savings. He did not remember the name of the bank or any other facts which would help me to trace the fort

une.

A prominent lawyer interested himself in the matter. He visited several of the oldest savings institutions in New York, and through the kindness of the cashier he finally found the name of James Korbey on the books of one of these banks. The unclaimed deposit with compound interest amounted to $1,256.53. The fortune was discovered, but the golden dreams of Korbey were not immediately realized. After his signature had been obtained, considerable time was consumed in properly identifying him as the rightful owner.

The excitement was too much for the old man. In a few days I received another hasty summons from Mrs. Korbey, who said:

"It will be the last time that I will