Who does not love that beautiful, most pathetic song entitled "The
Ninety and Nine"? but how many have literally helped to emulate the
Great Shepherd's example? Methinks I hear now, as I often have heard,
great throngs singing:

It may not be on the mountain height
Or over the stormy sea,
It may not be at the battle front,
My Lord will have need of me,
But if by a still, small voice he calls
To paths that I do not know.
I'll answer, dear Lord, with my hand in thine,
"I'll go where you want me to go"

Our Lord takes every one of us at our word, whether we are singing it, praying it, or testifying to it. He does, indeed. He takes us at our word. How many of us make excuses? Because of this, how many souls are going to be lost? Oh! the pity of it, the everlasting pity of it!…

In my possession are several photos. Most of them have been handed to me by the weeping mothers of lost, stray lambs; some have come through the mail; all contain the one cry: "Dear Mother Roberts, … Won't you please try to find my poor little girl? She may be in prison, or in the slums, or perhaps sick and dying in some hospital." And then follows a minute description of every feature, height, weight, peculiarities of character, etc. Many times the parents admit their own weak traits and failures. Poor, poor mothers! poor fathers! Not very often do we find them for you, sometimes where we would rather not; but you said that, no matter what their condition, I should tell them that you still loved them and that you would gladly welcome them home. We've found them sometimes when too far gone ever to come back to their earthly home, and but just barely in time to be rescued from eternal ruin.

Not always is the wanderer a girl, either. Sometimes a broken-hearted parent is looking for a lost boy, and solicits our help. I've met a few of them in the penitentiary, who have all but sworn me to secrecy.

"I'll be out soon," they've said. "No need to grieve the old folks at home by letting them know I've been in trouble."

"But, my boy," I've replied, "how are you going to account for your long absence and explain where you have been?"

"I'll fix it some way. Say I've been traveling or off in the mines.
Anyhow, I'll fix it so they shan't find out."

"But don't you know, dear boy, you are going to live in constant dread if you do that? The Bible says, 'Be sure your sins will find you out,' and also that 'nothing that maketh a lie shall enter the kingdom of heaven,' I can not write a lie to your parents, and they've written to me, asking me to try to find you. Besides, you'll need money to take you home. It is not so easy as you think to step out of here and obtain immediate employment. Even if you do, some one will be constantly crossing your path and demanding you to pay him 'hush money' to keep his mouth shut."

Then I have recommended them to the care of Mr. Charles Montgomery, president of the board of prison commissioners, who, through great self-denial, toil, and energy, succeeded in establishing, little more than two years ago, a beautiful home and mission for discharged prisoners. It is located in San Francisco. To it they may go and be well provided for until employment is procured for them. Truly this is a most blessed work for the Master. This home is the outcome of a plan long cherished by Brother Montgomery, who for nearly fifty years has labored for the reformation and welfare of convicts and ex-convicts. It is now situated at 110 Silver Street, near Third Street, and is well worth a visit from those who have the interest of these men at heart. It was opened June 9, 1909, and it has been doing an immense amount of good, helping many a discharged prisoner to be once more a desirable citizen and a man of honor. I would also add that it is a work of faith.

* * * * *

Will you come with me to one of our county hospitals this afternoon?

Soon we are kindly greeted by the matron, and almost the next words she utters after welcoming us are: "I'm especially glad to see you today, Mother Roberts, because in Ward X a girl who is dying has been asking if I knew where you were. You're none too soon. She can't last much longer, poor thing!" and she leads us to the bedside of the dying girl. I recognize her as Ruby ——, with whom I have more than once earnestly pleaded to forsake the wretched life she was living, warning her of the ultimate results of such a course. How changed she is as she lies there scarcely breathing! She opens her dying eyes at the sound of our footsteps. "Ruby dear, do you know me?" A barely perceptible nod. "I'm so glad Jesus sent us to you today, dear child. Won't you take him for your Savior right now?" In as few words as possible she is told of the dying thief on the cross. As she can not speak, we ask her to pray with her mind, whilst we kneel with her hand in ours, calling on Jesus for mercy, for pardon in this the "eleventh hour." The tears which she is too weak to wipe away are wetting her pillow, but we observe a look of peace stealing over her countenance. Soon we leave, believing that some day we shall meet her among that great throng of the blood-washed.

Following a mothers' meeting one day in a Northern town a care-worn-looking woman invited me home with her. Here she related another heartrending story of a lost girl, an only child, for whom she had toiled day and night at the wash-tub, so as to send her to school dressed as finely as the other girls. "I have had to work very hard as long as I can remember," the poor mother said, "and when I married, I made up my mind that if I ever had a daughter I would not teach her domestic duties, for fear she also would have to be a drudge all of her life." So she raised a lady (?). The girl grew to be very independent and disrespectful to her breadwinner, her mother, who was a deserted wife. At the age of sixteen Elsie, without even a note of farewell, left her comfortable little home and heart-broken mother, never to return. She had intimated her going, but the mother had attached no importance to these remarks, but she recalled them after her daughter's departure. Furthermore, Elsie carried away nearly every dollar of her mother's meager, hard-earned savings.

After a long look at a photograph I perceived that, because of a peculiar mark on the cheek, not removed by the retoucher, perhaps overlooked, I could readily recognize Elsie. Therefore, when visiting the slums, jails, and hospitals I kept a lookout for her as well as for others, and also notified some coworkers.

One day whilst visiting the old city and county hospital (where Mary's baby was born), I passed a cot where lay an apparently old woman; she looked to be fifty and appeared to be in the last stages of some dreadful form of tuberculosis. That identical mark was on her cheek, but surely this could not be twenty-three-year-old Elsie. Surely not. So I passed on to the next cot. The impression to return to the former one was so strong that it was acted upon. Stepping over to her, I softly said, "Don't be frightened, dear, but is your name Elsie?" The next moment I was quickly calling the nurse, for I feared the shock had killed the woman. The nurse came and administered some restorative and then advised me not to excite the patient further, for she was dying; but the girl had sufficiently recovered to be able to ask questions.

"Who told you?" she whispered.

[Illustration: POOR ELSIE]

"It won't hurt you if I tell you?" I asked.

"No; please."

"Elsie, it was your dear mother, who has never ceased to love you and to look for you all these years, and has kept the home so pretty and comfortable, waiting for you to come back."

"Where is mother? Don't, oh! don't tell me she is here."

"No, dear, she is at home. It is nearly a year since she asked me to try to find you."

"Elsie do you love Jesus?" I continued. "Have you asked him to forgive you?"

"It's too late, I've been too bad."

"We have all sinned, Elsie. 'All have come short of the glory of God.'
May I pray for you?"

"Yes, if you think he'll hear."

After my prayer she offered one—so short but oh! so contrite, so very, very contrite.

I called again the next day. She could barely speak even in a whisper, but she managed to let me know that she had had a beautiful dream and that after her death I was to write her mother that Elsie's last words to me were, "Tell mother I'll meet her in heaven," but not to let her know when and where her daughter died. She passed away that night. The letter to the mother was very brief, and no address given, so that there was no opportunity of subsequent correspondence. Three months later news came to me that the poor, loving, well-meaning, though mistaken mother had gone to join her dearly loved, lost and found Elsie in that "land that is fairer than day."