ady. Any one would have
known at a glance that they were Livingstone's father and mother. They
had hung there since Livingstone built his house, but he had not thought
of them in years. Perhaps, that was why they were still there.

They were early works of one who had since become a master. Livingstone
remembered the day his father had given the order to the young artist.

"Why do you do that?" some one had asked. "He perhaps has parts, but he
is a young man and wholly unknown."

"That is the very reason I do it," had said his father. "Those who are
known need no assistance. Help young men, for thereby some have helped
angels unawares."

It had come true. The unknown artist had become famous, and these early
portraits were now worth--no, not those figures which suddenly gleamed
before Livingstone's eyes!--

Livingstone remembered the letter that the artist had written his
father, tendering him aid when he learned of his father's reverses--he
had said he owed his life to him--and his father's reply, that he needed
no aid, and it was sufficient recompense to know that one he had helped
remembered a friend.

Livingstone walked up and scanned the portrait nearest him. He had not
really looked at it in years. He had had no idea how fine it was. How
well it portrayed him! There was the same calm forehead, noble in its
breadth; the same deep, serene, blue eyes;--the artist had caught their
kindly expression;--the same gentle mouth with its pleasant humor
lurking at the corners;--the artist had almost put upon the canvas the
mobile play of the lips;--the same finely cut chin with its well marked
cleft. It was the very man.

Livingstone had had no idea how handsome a man his father was. He
remembered Henry Trelane saying he wished he were an artist to paint his
father, but that only Van Dyck could have made him as distinguished as
he was.

He turned to the portrait of his mother. It was a beautiful face and a
gracious. He remembered that every one except his father had said it
was a fine portrait, but his father had said it was, "only a fine
picture; no portrait of her could be fine."

Moved by the recollection, Livingstone opened a drawer and took from a
box the daguerreotype of a boy. He held it in his hand and looked first
at it and then at the portraits on the wall. Yes, it was distinctly like
both. He remembered it used to be said that he was like his father; but
his father had always said he was like his mother.