The experiment to which we alluded in the opening sentences of this chapter was that of trying to get hold of his neighbours and acquaintances, and helping them if possible to a higher and better life. There were people living all round him—some of them he had known for twenty years—who never went to church or chapel, and who seemed utterly unconcerned about death and the great hereafter that lay beyond it—people whose life was one hopeless round of toil, with nothing to brighten or cheer its dull monotony. Some of them were decent people too, honest and industrious. It is true they got drunk occasionally, and were not always as civil to their wives and families and to each other as they might be; yet, notwithstanding, they had a soft place in their hearts, and were ever ready to watch by a sick neighbour's bed-side, or lend a helping hand to a mate more needy than themselves.

How to get hold of these children of the great Father, and lead them into His fold, was a problem that had puzzled Joe for some time. At length he decided, with his wife's consent, to invite them to tea, or as many of them as could be accommodated, some Sunday afternoon, and when he had got them together, to talk to them on those matters which were of such vital importance.

Accordingly the invitations were sent out, and on the Sunday afternoon already mentioned some fifteen men found their way to Joe Wrag's cottage, wondering what was in the wind.

When they had all got comfortably seated on the forms that Joe had provided, Joe stood up in a corner of the room, and looked around him: evidently it was no easy task to begin to talk. Joe had no idea that it would be so difficult. Every eye was fixed upon him with a wondering expression. Joe coughed two or three times, then making a tremendous effort, he said,

"You all know me, mates?"

"Ay," they all exclaimed, "we ought to, anyhow."

"Ay, jist so," said Joe, feeling more at ease now that the ice was broken; "but I've discovered lately, lads, that I ain't a-done my duty."

"Come, old boss, we ain't a-blamin' yer; so don't begin a ballyraggin' yoursel' in that way," said one of the men.

"Facts is stubborn, though," went on Joe, "an' I see that I've kep' mysel' too much to mysel', an' I ain't a-been that neighbourly as I ought to ha' been; but I intend to do differ'nt."

"Well, I'm hanged," said the man who had before spoken, "if I ain't considerable at a loss, Joe, to know what yer drivin' at."

"I 'spects so, no doubt, but I'm not good at 'splainin'; but it 'pears to me, mates, as how we ain't got hold o' life by the right end."

"Yer mean us, Joe?" questioned several voices together.