s. A few clocks, and frames of clocks, gathered
probably from auction rooms, were ranged upon a shelf, and dust was never
allowed to accumulate around or upon them. Never was housemaid more exact
and scrupulous than the proprietor of this Gallery.

In the back part of the shop, which was lighted by the skylight, stood the
instrument for daguerreo-typing, possession of which would have made the
organist a proud man, if anything could have done so.

When he had invited Mr. Rush to sit down, and the invitation was accepted,
it was by a device of Summerman's that the gentleman found himself
directly facing the machine, and now, if he took an interest in any
earthly thing, or was capable of curiosity, some good would come of it,
thought the organist.

He had promised to show his visitor somewhat, and accordingly approached
him with a miniature case in his hand.

Mr. Rush had removed his fur cap, and Summerman approaching him, was so
struck by his appearance, the dignity, and pride, and trouble his
countenance expressed, that he nearly exclaimed in his surprise, and quite
forgot the intention he had, till Mr. Rush reminded him by extending his
hand for the picture.

"This is little Mary," exclaimed he, presenting the miniature. "I took it
last summer. She died in October. Maybe you will understand now why I
said that we should have had a singer, if she had lived."

But Summerman was in doubt about this, as, from the point to which he
immediately retired, he cast a glance at the face of the stranger, who
took the picture, and surveyed it, with such a look.

At first, it appeared as if a glance would suffice him. But he did not
return it with a glance. Was it the brightness and innocence of the young
face that won upon him, or did it for the moment take its place as the
type of all beauty and innocence, and hold him to contemplation, as for
the last time. Was it really into the face of _that_ little child, dead
and buried since October, that he looked? or was _he_ really _here_, under
the roof of this poor organist, shut up with the warmth of his coal stove
this bright Christmas day, locked safe his secret thoughts, himself secure
with them?

At last some word or sound escaped the organist. He had gazed at Mr. Rush
till he seemed possessed of nightmare. So wild, so haggard, so awful, the
man's face appeared to him, that the cry, an involuntary one, expressed
better than any inquiry could have done, how much disturbed he