“Very well; you may tell him that I will come at that time.” The scene vanished as before. A change passed over the surface of the mirror. Again the merchant looked, and, to his surprise, beheld the interior of his own store. A faint light was burning, by the light of which a young man, whom he recognized as Frank Durell, one of his own clerks, was reading a letter, the contents of which seemed to agitate him powerfully. The scene was brought so near, that he could, without difficulty, trace the lines, written in a delicate, female hand, as follows:— “MY DEAR SON,—You are not, probably, expecting to hear from me at this time. Alas that I should have such an occasion to write! At the time of your father’s death, it was supposed, that, by the sacrifice of every thing, we had succeeded in liquidating all his debts. Even this consolation is now denied us. I received a call from Mr. Perry this morning, who presented for _immediate payment_ a note given by your father for fifty dollars. Immediate payment! How, with a salary barely sufficient to support us, can you meet such a charge? Can any way be devised? Mr. Perry threatens, if the money is not forthcoming, to seize our furniture. He is a hard man, and I have no hopes of appeasing him. I do not know that you can do any thing to retard it; but I have thought it right to acquaint you with this new calamity. “Your affectionate mother, “MARY DURELL.” The young man laid down the letter with an air of depression. “I scarcely know how to provide for this new contingency,” said he, meditatively. “My salary is small; and it requires the strictest economy to meet my expenses. I might ask for an advance; but Mr. Hathaway is particular on that point, and I should but court a refusal. But to have my mother’s furniture taken from the house! The whole amount would hardly cover the debt. There is one resource; but alas that I should ever think of resorting to it! I could take the money from the till, and return it when I am able. But shall I ever be able? It would be no more nor less than robbery. At all events, I will not do it to-night. Who knows but something may turn up to help us?” The young man blew out the lamp, and left the store. The picture faded. “I will show you another picture, somewhat different from the others: it will be the last,” said the stranger. The next scene represented the interior of a baker’s shop. The baker—a coarse-featured man, with a hard, unprepossessing aspect—was waiting on a woman thinly clad in garments more suitable for June than December. She was purchasing two loaves of bread and a few crackers. There was another customer waiting his turn. It was a gentleman, with a pleasant smile on his face.