The stranger led the way to a dingy tenement house with an open cellar door. The stranger dived down into this cellar, followed by his two companions. They found themselves in a deep, murky room, with a damp flagstone floor, damp brick walls, a musty atmosphere, without furniture, without fire, and without light, except from the street gas lamp that stood directly in front of the house, and shone down into the cellar. By its light they saw three miserable human beings—a young woman, a little boy, and a baby girl—huddled together on the damp floor, as if trying to keep each other warm. “Come, wife, cheer up! Help has come! Here is supper for you and the children!” said the husband, taking the hamper from the waiter, who was staring in astonishment at the party he had been called upon to serve. “You can go back now. It is but a step to your place, and come later for the dishes—or I can send them around,” said Harcourt, slipping a quarter into the waiter’s hand. “All right, sir,” said the latter, now quite understanding, despite Harcourt’s rough suit, that “a gentleman” had chosen to relieve a starving family. The husband and father had hastily arranged the food on the cellar floor, and the famished wife and children had gathered around. He had put a cup of coffee in the hands of his wife, and was now giving hot milk to the two children. It was a Rembrandt picture, seen in the glare of the street gas lamp. “Have you no light?” inquired Harcourt. “Light! Should we have light when we have not fire, and hadn’t food until you brought it?” exclaimed the man. “Then I will hurry out and try to get some candles and some coal before the stores are closed,” said Harcourt. And away he went. He succeeded in buying a bucket of coal, a bundle of kindlings, a box of matches, a pound of candles, and a pair of tin candlesticks. With these he returned to his new friends, kindled a fire in the stove, lighted two candles, and placed them in the candlesticks, on the floor, and then looked around. There was no furniture of any description in the cellar, unless a pile of ragged bedclothes, in the dryest corner, next the chimney, could be called such. “I see what you are looking for, sir! But they are all at the pawnbroker’s, every stick! And the rags would have been along with the rest if any broker would have advanced ten cents on them, to buy the children bread to-day.” “It is dreadful, my friend, dreadful! I wish I could do more for you now, but the stores are all closed. Make yourself as comfortable as you can, under the circumstances, to-night, and to-morrow I will see you again. What is your name, by the way?” “Adler, sir; Abel Adler.” “Mine is Williams. Good-night. You will see the hamper of dishes returned?” “Oh, yes, sir! Thank you more than words can say,” responded Adler. “More than words can say,” repeated his wife. “Good-night! good-night!” said Harcourt hastily, and he hurried out from the cellar.