Livingstone turned and crossed the marble-paved hall to another spacious suite of rooms. Not a soul was there. The rooms were swept and garnished, the silence and loneliness seeming only intensified by the brilliant light and empty magnificence. Livingstone felt like a man in a dream from which he could not awake. He turned and made his way back to the outer door. As he did so he caught sight of a single figure at the far end of one of the big rooms. It looked like Wright,--the husband of Mrs. Wright to whom Livingstone had sent his charity-subscription a few hours before. He had on his overcoat and must have just come in. He was standing by the great fire-place rubbing his hands with satisfaction. As Livingstone turned away, he thought he heard his name called, but he dashed out into the night. He could not stand Wright just then. He plunged back through the snow and once more let himself in at his own door. It was lonelier within than before. The hall was ghastly. The big rooms, bigger than they had ever seemed, were like a desert. It was intolerable: He would go to bed. He slowly climbed the stairs. The great clock on the landing stared at him as he passed and in deep tones tolled the hour--of ten. It was impossible! Livingstone knew it must have been hours since he left his office. To him it seemed months, years;--but his own watch marked the same hour. As he entered his bedroom, two pictures hanging on the wall caught his eye. They were portraits of a gentleman and a lady. Any one would have known at a glance that they were Livingstone's father and mother. They had hung there since Livingstone built his house, but he had not thought of them in years. Perhaps, that was why they were still there. They were early works of one who had since become a master. Livingstone remembered the day his father had given the order to the young artist. "Why do you do that?" some one had asked. "He perhaps has parts, but he is a young man and wholly unknown." "That is the very reason I do it," had said his father. "Those who are known need no assistance. Help young men, for thereby some have helped angels unawares." It had come true. The unknown artist had become famous, and these early portraits were now worth--no, not those figures which suddenly gleamed before Livingstone's eyes!-- Livingstone remembered the letter that the artist had written his father, tendering him aid when he learned of his father's reverses--he had said he owed his life to him--and his father's reply, that he needed no aid, and it was sufficient recompense to know that one he had helped remembered a friend.