Notwithstanding the time spent in pacing through the street, I could determine on no definite course of action; and, at length, resolving to be guided by circumstances, I stepped up to the house, and knocked at the door. It was opened by a young woman, about nineteen years of age. I should not have known who she was, had I not expected to meet relatives; but the girl was beautiful, and just such as I should have expected to find my sister Martha. My thoughts had so often dwelt upon my little sister; that I had drawn in my mind an imaginary portrait of her. Her blue eyes and bright hair, as well as the cast of her countenance, and form of her features, had ever remained fresh and perfect in my memory. I had only to gaze on the young girl before me, refer to my mental picture of little Martha, remember that eleven years had passed since last I saw her, and be certain that I had found my sister. I knew it was she; but I said nothing to make the recognition mutual. I simply asked for Mrs Leary. I was invited in; and requested to take a seat. The apartment, into which I was conducted, seemed to be used as a sitting-room as well as a shop; and from its general appearance I could tell that my mother and sister were not doing a very flourishing business. There was enough, however, to satisfy me, that they were earning their living in a respectable manner. To prevent being misunderstood, I will state, that, by a respectable manner, I mean that they, to all appearance, were supporting themselves by honest industry; and in my opinion there can be no greater evidence, that they were living a life that should command respect. The young girl, without a suspicion of the character of her visitor, left me to summon the person for whom I had made inquiry; and in a few minutes time, Mrs Leary herself entered from an adjoining room. I saw at a glance that she was the woman I remembered as _mother_! The face appeared older and more careworn; but the features were the same, that had lived so long in my memory. It would be impossible to describe the strange emotions that crowded into my soul on once more beholding my long-lost, unfortunate mother. I know not why I should have been so strongly affected. Some may argue that a weak intellect is easily excited by trifles. They may be correct; but there is another phenomenon. A great passion can never have existence in a little soul; and I know that at that moment, a storm of strong passions was raging within mine. I tried to speak, but could not. Language was not made for the thoughts that at that moment stirred within me. It was not until I had been twice asked by my mother, what was my business, that I perceived the necessity of saying something. But what was I to say? Tell her that I was her son?