Markham slides her little gold watch back under her basque. The committee have arrived. Now she smiles all over. Her hypocritical voice is pitched to the company key. She glides round the benches, and calls to "Rose, dear," and "Mabel, dear," and "Anna, dear," patting them on their shrinking shoulders with her serpent touch. Now one of the committee makes a prayer, and thanks God that these dear children, rescued from sinks of pollution and crime, and from depraved parents, have here found a Christian home, under the guardianship of a mother in Israel; he prays that God will reward her abundantly for her self-sacrificing devotion to them, and that the children may feel unfeignedly grateful for all their blessings. The committee then seat themselves, and Markham asks a list of questions, cut and dried beforehand, to which parrot tongues respond. The children then wail out a hymn, composed by a friend of Mrs. Markham's in which they are made to express to that lady their affectionate gratitude, as well as to the philanthropic and discriminating committee present, who blow their noses sympathetically, and wipe their spectacles. The children are then dismissed to their bread and molasses, and so the farce ends. (Pity, that the munificent bequests of great and good men to such institutions as these, should, for want of a little investigation, sometimes be so sadly misappropriated.) The next day the readers of _The Morning Budget_ are informed, with a pretty show of statistics, of the flourishing condition of that humane institution the CHARITY ORPHAN ASYLUM, and of the spiritual and temporal well-to-do-a-tiveness of its inmates, under the judicious supervision of its energetic, self-denying, and Christian matron, Mrs. Clara Markham; who forthwith orders a dozen copies of _The Morning Budget_, which she distributes among her friends, reserving one for a fixture on her parlor table, to edify chance visitors. Meanwhile little Tibbie sleeps peacefully in her pine coffin in the Potters Field, and Rose sits up in her little cot, while all around her sleep, and stretches out her imploring arms to the peaceful stars that shimmer through the window. On the evening of examination-day, Mr. Balch, as usual, takes his leave with the rest of the committee, but after seeing them safely round the corner, returns as usual, to tea with Markham in the cosy little parlor; and Markham smiles on him as only an unappropriated elderly female knows how; and Mr. Balch, what with the smile and the Hyson, considers Webster and Worcester united too meager to express his feelings, and falls back upon Markham's hand, upon which he makes an unmistakable record of his bachelor emotions. CHAPTER VIII. "Mercy on us! you don't expect me to sleep in that room, do you?" asked Timmins of Mrs. Markham, as they stopped before the door of the room where little Tibbie died.