The woman came forward, with a chuckle, and seized upon the piece of silver so kindly offered. “Ha, ha—I am rolling in gold, rolling in it, do you see. But as for help, the more one has, the more one wants help. I have a cat and three chickens at home, that’ll be the better for what you give them. As for me, I can make my bed of gold and feel it soft. Oh! ha, that’s a pretty boy you’ve got there.” The young mother was gratified. The woman before her became less grotesque. Maternal love was beginning to soften even her evil exterior. “Yes,” said the gentle matron, “he is a darling. If you could but see his eyes now. Wait a moment. He stirs!” “Ah! I can wait to see his eyes, dear little rogue. How white his forehead is! What curls, brown as a chestnut, with a touch of gold in it. Ah, there lies the beauty. Gold, gold, I should like to see it everywhere.” As she spoke, the old woman crept close to the sofa, and began to lift the curls, which lay on the child’s temple, with her claw-like fingers. As she did this, the widow, who was looking on rather anxiously, for she recoiled from the sight of those hooked finger-nails so close to the snowy forehead of her child, saw for the first time what looked like the shadow of a ruby cross upon the boy’s temple, the top running up among the curls, which, strangely enough, did not grow upon the spot, but only sheltered it from casual scrutiny. “It is the mark of his fingers. He always sleeps with his hand under his head,” observed the widow, with a vague feeling of awe. “His skin is so delicate, the touch of a rose-leaf makes it flush.” “Pretty though, isn’t it?” said the old woman, with a sharp laugh. “Everything about him is beautiful to me,” said the young woman, gazing fondly on the child. “Eddie, my darling—has he slept enough?” The little fellow, fully aroused at last from his sweet slumber, turned upon his cushion and began to rub both little fists into his eyes, while his lips parted like the sudden unfolding of a rose-bud. “Mamma!” The little fellow rose to a sitting posture and held out his arms. “My darling!” “Dear little fellow. Never mind, come to aunty,” interposed the strange woman, reaching forth her arms, that fell around the child like a pair of flails. The boy struggled and wrung himself free from this unwelcome embrace. “Let me alone,” he said, clenching his tiny fist, and stamping fiercely upon the sofa-cushion, “I don’t want beggar-women to touch me!” “Beggar!” cried the woman, with a shrill laugh. “Ah! that’s a nice joke, my darling. Beggar! I’ve half a mind to shake you where you stand. Beggar! Oh! it’s a sweet child. Of course it’s your own, ma’am?” This question was put with startling abruptness, accompanied by a sharp, scrutinizing glance, that drove the blood from the fair cheek it searched. “Mine, of course. Yes, of course,” faltered the lady, drawing the boy toward her with both arms. “Mine, yes, yes, whose else? What do you mean, woman?”