l, that
I wished this very much. Had I succeeded, you would have been acquainted,
at least, with your mother's appearance, and need not have sustained this
shock. But he would not consent. It gave him, I think, a certain pleasure
to think that he had the only picture. But now he is dead, and out of
remorse, or with some other intention, has left it to me."

"That looks like kindness," said I.

"Yes; or something else. He might have thought that by so doing he was
establishing a claim upon me," my father said; but he did not seem
disposed to add any more. On whose behalf he meant to establish a claim I
did not know, nor who the man was who had laid us under so great an
obligation on his death-bed. He _had_ established a claim on me at least;
though, as he was dead, I could not see on whose behalf it was. And my
father said nothing more; he seemed to dislike the subject. When I
attempted to return to it, he had recourse to his letters or his
newspapers. Evidently he had made up his mind to say no more.

Afterwards I went into the drawing-room, to look at the picture once
more. It seemed to me that the anxiety in her eyes was not so evident as
I had thought it last night. The light possibly was more favorable. She
stood just above the place where, I make no doubt, she had sat in life,
where her little work-basket was,--not very much above it. The picture
was full-length, and we had hung it low, so that she might have been
stepping into the room, and was little above my own level as I stood and
looked at her again. Once more I smiled at the strange thought that this
young creature--so young, almost childish--could be my mother; and once
more my eyes grew wet looking at her. He was a benefactor, indeed, who
had given her back to us. I said to myself, that if I could ever do
anything for him or his, I would certainly do it, for my--for this lovely
young creature's sake. And with this in my mind, and all the thoughts
that came with it, I am obliged to confess that the other matter, which I
had been so full of on the previous night, went entirely out of my head.

* * * * *

It is rarely, however, that such matters are allowed to slip out of one's
mind. When I went out in the afternoon for my usual stroll,--or rather
when I returned from that stroll,--I saw once more before me the woman
with her baby, whose story had filled me with dismay on the previous
evening. She was waiting at the gate as