It was not solely the exquisite loveliness of the child’s face, though the shape and coloring were perfect—but beside the dark rich hair, which fell in such unheeded profusion on the shoulders of its little mistress—and beside the deep, sapphire-blue of the large languid eyes, and the classic regularity of every feature, there was an expression, a _soul look_, which intensified her natural beauty, and stamped her as the owner of an intellect whose range was far higher than that reached by any of her playmates. “Tell me your name, little angel,” said the artist, in the excitement of his delighted surprise. “My name is Alice Flynn,” was the prompt answer, accompanied by a smile and frank look of inquiry, which read very plainly “what is _your_ name—and what do you want of me?” “Have you a mother? Where does she live? Go with me to your home—I must speak with her.” The child answered these queries by at once leaving her playmates—the artist followed her quickly, and in a few moments they entered a narrow byway. Passing a short distance through it, little Alice paused before a shabby old frame house, which seemed every day on the point of bidding an eternal farewell to all things terrestrial. “This is the place where we live, sir,” she said, with the sweetest voice in the world; “will you come in?” “The little girl is yours, ma’am, I believe,” said Martin, as he stood in the presence of what seemed to him an ogress—a gigantic woman who certainly could lay but little claim to beauty, when compared with the “child-angel” who called her mother. “Yes—she wasn’t lost was she? Or was she up to mischief in the street, just tell me that?” “No, no—nothing of the kind,” said the artist quickly—but not in the least daunted by the washer-woman’s unamiable greeting—“I was struck with her appearance—and now that I have at last an opportunity of accomplishing an object I have long contemplated, I trust you will not object.” “Lord, sir, what is it ye want—speak it out quick can’t ye—my work is waiting for me, don’t ye see? Do you want the child’s front teeth, or her hair? I’ve sold her hair twice to a barber, but her teeth—” “You mistake me,” exclaimed Martin Gray, sharply, for he was disgusted with the cruel words of the old beldam. “I am an artist—I would like to take her likeness—will you permit me to do so?” “No! what would you do with it? The girl’s about spoiled now with people’s telling her how beautiful she is. To be sure the child _is_ well enough”—this with a sort of brutish pride—“in looks, but beauty don’t give us bread, and her good looks only spiles her—she’s getting proud and hateful since people have told her so much about it, the little fool!” “If that is so, I fear it is not the wisest course to let her play so much in the street with other little folks,” said Martin.