Anna interposed with a piece of information that she had lately gained,— that it was dangerous to make new acquaintances in London, without a very precise knowledge who people were; and how should Mrs. Durell know who they were? “What more has she learned of that since breakfast?” inquired Durell. Anna looked bashful while she acknowledged that Mrs. Durell had yet had no further testimony than her own word for her respectability. “But she has,” replied Durell. “The impress of truth upon the brow—God’s own seal. She might have trusted me for knowing it at sight.” “It having never deceived you, John,—do you mean to say? Ah! you are going to protest that you knew all the time when people were cheating you. I ask no more than that you should let me see for myself when there is truth sealed upon the brow. I will not be so long in looking for it, next time.” “Mr. Durell,” said Anna, “Aaron has been with you this morning; did he——” “I beg your pardon. Your brother has not been with me this morning.” “I heard him directed to go, and to give you notice of something. I was going to ask whether he told you that Brennan is to be let off his work, as you wished, for some reason,—I don’t know what. He said something about it to Mr. Studley,—that you were going to get some new clothes for him.” “Did I promise that? O, I remember. The lad’s a genius, my dear,” (to his wife,) “and we must find up a suit of clothes for him, in some way; and then——” Mrs. Durell shrugged her shoulders, while Anna explained that after the clothes should come the holiday. “I thank you much. I thank your father as for a favour done to myself,” replied Durell. “My very best thanks to your father.——Jack, my boy, what’s the matter now?” cried he, snatching up the child, who was whimpering, and only wanted encouragement to burst into a loud cry. “Stephen won’t let me go with him. Stephen is getting out of the window, and he won’t lift me out that I may lead him.” True enough; Stephen was found stepping out of the low parlour window into the street. “Poor fellow! what fancy has taken him now?” said Durell, running into the parlour, followed by every body from the kitchen. “He is a singular character,” he proceeded to explain to Anna. “It has pleased the Almighty to lay a heavy hand upon him, and to permit us to lighten the burden. I always held that this outward darkening of the man was like the shrouding of the firmament in midnight,—making all that moves in it the brighter and clearer; and, since I have known this man, I am sure of it.” “He is not blind,” said Anna, quietly. “We know him well; we have too good reason to know him. He carried off half our stock of linen.” “You are mistaken,” averred Durell, with sparkling eyes. “He has been living in our house,—never out of our sight, ever since you came to London.”