The poor old cripple's dim eyes filled with tears as she saw the nice grey woollen wrapper, and felt the half-crown pressed into her wrinkled palm.
"God bless you, dear lady! God Almighty bless and reward you!" was all she could say.
And, quite understanding, Mrs. Drury gently bade Amethyst open the door, and in a moment more their footsteps resounded along the uneven pavement.
Mrs. Drury and Amethyst walked along silently for a few minutes, each apparently busy with her own thoughts. The former was thinking how best she could aid the poor old cripple she had just left, while her little daughter was pondering over the history of her name. They had reached a more open thoroughfare when Amethyst broke the silence.
"Amethyst is _rather_ a funny name for a girl, don't you think, mumsie?"
Suddenly recalled from a mental calculation in which blankets and beef-tea played a prominent part, Mrs. Drury smiled down at her little daughter. "Do you think so, girlie?" was all she said.
"Well, yes, I do," confessed Amethyst, slowly. "Although the girls at the High School have nicknamed me 'Thistle,' they tease me about my proper name sometimes, and say I might as well have been called Sapphire or Topaz, or one of those long names which begin with a 'C.' I can't pronounce them properly, but you know the ones I mean, mumsie."
"Yes, dear, I know. You mean chrysolite and chalcedony and chrysoprasus," said her mother, with a smile; "but they are very different. Your father and I chose your name because of its meaning, for a special reason, as we have often told you, Amethyst. When we used to live in the East-end of London, where you were born, there was so much sin and sorrow all round us everywhere, caused by strong drink, that we resolved to call you Amethyst, so that you might always be a reminder to us of our promise not to have anything to do with it. And there was another reason, girlie," Mrs. Drury dropped her voice, and spoke softly. "Your father and I have always hoped and prayed, from your very babyhood, that when you were grown up you might become a worker in the noble army of men and women who are fighting, in God's strength, against this dreadful enemy of our beloved England."