“Those are his arms and crest.” She points with her Milton to a singular hieroglyphic, in a wiry black frame, resting on the marble-painted mantelpiece. “He was very distinguished in his time; and such an excellent Christian.” She shakes her head and wipes the tears from her spectacles, as her face, which had before seemed carved in wormwood, slightly relaxes the hardness of its muscles. “I remember having seen favorable mention of Sir Sunderland’s name in the book I refer to—” She again interposes. The young man watches her emotions with a penetrating eye, conscious that he has touched a chord in which all the milk of kindness is not dried up. “It’s a true copy of the family arms. Everybody has got to having arms now-a-days. (She points to the indescribable scrawl over the mantelpiece.) It was got through Herald King, of London, who they say keeps her Majesty’s slippers and the great seal of State. We were very exact, you see. Yes, sir—we were very exact. Our vulgar people, you see-I mean such as have got up by trade, and that sort of thing—went to a vast expense in sending to England a man of great learning and much aforethought, to ransack heraldry court and trace out their families. Well, he went, lived very expensively, spent several years abroad, and being very clever in his way, returned, bringing them all pedigrees of the very best kind. With only two exceptions, he traced them all down into noble blood. These two, the cunning fellow had it, came of martyrs. And to have come of the blood of martyrs, when all the others, as was shown, came of noble blood, so displeased—the most ingenious (the old lady shakes her head regrettingly) can’t please everybody—the living members of these families, that they refused to pay the poor man for his researches, so he was forced to resort to a suit at law. And to this day (I don’t say it disparagingly of them!) both families stubbornly refuse to accept the pedigree. They are both rich grocers, you see! and on this account we were very particular about ours.” The young man thought it well not to interrupt the old woman’s display of weakness, inasmuch as it might produce a favorable change in her feelings. “And now, young man, what mission have you besides love?” she inquires, adding an encouraging look through her spectacles. “I am come to intercede—” “You needn’t talk of interceding with me; no you needn’t! I’ve nothing to intercede about”—she twitches her head spitefully. “In behalf of your son.” “There—there! I knew there was some mischief. You’re a Catholic! I knew it. Never saw one of your black-coated flock about that there wasn’t mischief brewing—never! I can’t read my Milton in peace for you—” “But your son is in prison, Madam, among criminals, and subject to the influence of their habits—”