binder's first."

"Very well. Go to the binder's. But be sure to come to my office as
you return; I want to see you particularly."

My words made the blood rush to the child's pale face. Hope again
was springing up in his bosom.

In about ten minutes he entered my office. His step was lighter, but
I could see that each footfall gave him pain. The first thing I did
was to examine his feet. They were in a shocking condition. One of
them had cracked open in several places, and the wounds had become
running sores; other parts were red and shining, and much swollen, I
dressed them carefully. When I came to replace his shoes, I found
them so dilapidated and out of shape, as to be no protection to his
feet whatever, but rather tending to fret them, and liable to rub
off the bandages I had put on. To remedy this, I sent my man out for
a new pair, of soft leather. When these were put on, and he stood
upon, his feet, he said that they did not hurt him at all. I needed
not his declaration of the fact to convince me of this, for the
whole expression of his face had changed. His eyes were no longer
fixed and sad; nor were his brows drawn down, nor his lips
compressed.

"I think you told me that your name was Miller?" I said to him, as
he stood looking earnestly in my face after the dressing of his feet
was completed.

"Yes, sir," he replied.

"And that your mother was dead?"

"Yes, sir."

"I think you said that W---- was your uncle?"

"Yes, sir. Mother told me that he was my uncle."

"Is your father living?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Did your mother ever speak to you about him?"

"No, sir."

"Then you can't tell whether he is living or not?"

"No, sir; but I suppose he is dead."

"Why do you think so?"

"Because I never saw him, nor heard mother speak of him."

"You are sure your name is Miller?"

"Oh yes, sir."

"And that Mr. W---- is your uncle?"

"My mother said he was."

"Did you ever see him?"

"No, sir."

"Why don't you go, to see him, and tell him who you are?"

"I asked mother, one day, to let me do so, but she said I must never
think of such a thing."

"Why not?"

"I don't know."

"And so you never went to see him?"

"No, indeed; mother said I must not." This was said with great
artlessness.

"What became of your mother's things after she died?"

"The woman we rented from took them all. Mother owed her, she said."

"Indeed! Where did you live?"

"In Commerce street, three or fo