“Well, never you mind that, my dear,” said the old lady; “that’s got nothing to do with your broth, and it’s full time you had it, for the doctor says Mr. Brownlow may come in to see you this morning, and we must get up our best looks, because the better we look the more he’ll be pleased.” And with this, the old lady applied herself to warming up in a little saucepan a basin full of broth, strong enough to furnish an ample dinner, when reduced to the regulation strength, for three hundred and fifty paupers, at the very lowest computation. “Are you fond of pictures, dear?” inquired the old lady, seeing that Oliver had fixed his eyes most intently on a portrait which hung against the wall just opposite his chair. “I don’t quite know, ma’am,” said Oliver, without taking his eyes from the canvass; “I have seen so few that I hardly know. What a beautiful, mild face that lady’s is!” “Ah!” said the old lady, “painters always make ladies out prettier than they are, or they wouldn’t get any custom, child. The man that invented the machine for taking likenesses might have known _that_ would never succeed; it’s a deal too honest,—a deal,” said the old lady, laughing very heartily at her own acuteness. “Is—is that a likeness, ma’am?” said Oliver. “Yes,” said the old lady, looking up for a moment from the broth; “that’s a portrait.” “Whose, ma’am?” asked Oliver eagerly. “Why, really, my dear, I don’t know,” answered the old lady in a good-humoured manner. “It’s not a likeness of anybody that you or I know, I expect. It seems to strike your fancy, dear.” “It is so very pretty—so very beautiful,” replied Oliver. “Why, sure you’re not afraid of it?” said the old lady, observing in great surprise the look of awe with which the child regarded the painting. “Oh no, no,” returned Oliver quickly; “but the eyes look so sorrowful, and where I sit they seem fixed upon me. It makes my heart beat,” added Oliver in a low voice, “as if it was alive, and wanted to speak to me, but couldn’t.” “Lord save us!” exclaimed the old lady, starting; “don’t talk in that way, child. You’re weak and nervous after your illness. Let me wheel your chair round to the other side, and then you won’t see it. There,” said the old lady, suiting the action to the word; “you don’t see it now, at all events.” Oliver _did_ see it in his mind’s eye as distinctly as if he had not altered his position, but he thought it better not to worry the kind old lady; so he smiled gently when she looked at him, and Mrs. Bedwin, satisfied that he felt more comfortable, salted and broke bits of toasted bread into the broth with all the bustle befitting so solemn a preparation. Oliver got through it with extraordinary expedition, and had scarcely swallowed the last spoonful when there came a soft tap at the door. “Come in,” said the old lady; and in walked Mr. Brownlow.