“Well,” I said, “you can say you are a happier man now than ever you were before, cannot you?”
“Yes, ma’am, thank God, I can trust Him for this life, and through my blessed Saviour I have hope of a better life to come.”
I saw, by the thoughtful and earnest expression of his face, that the man had still something on his mind; so I did not reply, but waited a minute.
“Do you know, ma’am,” he continued, “though God has been so good to me, and has made me to see how He can and will save me, sinner though I am, it do trouble me, and I can’t help it, to see so much confusion, like, in this world. Some people as isn’t worse than others, nor yet so bad, seems to be always a-suffering; and little children too, it do grieve me to see them suffer: and then you see, ma’am, what a place this very ‘Potteries’ is, to be in God’s world.”
“But,” I replied, “God did not make the Potteries what they are. Some sixty years ago, before any one lived here, the air was fresh and sweet; flowers and trees were growing here; and it was altogether as pleasant a place as any other portion of God’s dominions.”
“Well,” he said, “that’s true:” but the shade had not passed away from his countenance.
“Do you know,” I continued, “it is one of the greatest troubles of my life that I so often feel just what you describe. It was only a short time ago, I was walking in London; and as I turned into one of the back streets, I saw a little boy sitting on a doorstep, with a baby in his arms about five or six months old; as I passed by, the baby began to cry, and the miserable expression of its little face, and the hopeless look of its nurse, feeling so powerless to do anything to comfort it,—both little faces looking already old from hunger, cold, and neglect,—so troubled me that I could scarcely look at or enjoy anything while I was out. In the evening, after my own healthy, happy children were gone to bed, I was sitting in my comfortable room by the cheerful fire, surrounded by everything to make life comfortable and desirable; but instead of feeling thankful for so many mercies, I sat and cried at the recollection of those unhappy little children.”
“And did ye sure, ma’am?” said the man. “Law! now, how we do feel alike after all, when we come to know! But I suppose, ma’am, that sort of thing does not last long with you?”