Hagar looked at her with astonishment, that she should propose to “beard the lion” in his present mood. “Yes, into the parlor,” persisted the child. “I’ll bet you anything that uncle will let us stay in the parlor this evening, and warm ourselves at the fire; it is so very cold, you know.” “Well! it is _my_ house, anyhow, and so for your sake, Rose, we _will_ go down.” And hand in hand the shivering children left the attic, passed down four flights of back stairs, and went to the parlor door, and Rosalia peeped timidly in. It was the same old parlor, papered with the Christian martyrs that I have before described; and there sat the tall thin figure of Mr. Withers, dark, solemn, and lowering; and opposite sat Sophie, with her soft brown eyes bent over her knitting. And, oh! sight of luxury to the half-frozen child,—there was a glorious, glowing hickory fire, crackling, blazing, and roaring in the chimney. The children opened the door and passed in, carefully closing it after them; they approached the fire, Hagar with an air of defiance, Rose with a look of deprecation. Sophie looked at the children with remorseful tenderness, and made room for them, unluckily, between herself and Withers, thereby attracting his attention. He turned, and knitting his brows until they met across his nose, and fixing his eyes sternly on the children, he asked, in a rough tone— “What are you doing here?” “Warming ourselves!” exclaimed Hagar, raising her eyes, flashing, to his face. He frowned darkly on her, and half started from his seat, while Rose cowered at her side, and Sophie grew pale. “Be off with yourselves,” he said, in a stern under tone. Hagar planted her feet firmly on the ground, while Rosalia slunk away. Sophie arose, and saying, in a low tone, “Take Rose to the kitchen fire, dear Hagar,” prepared to follow them. “Come back, Sophie!” exclaimed Withers, in an excited tone. And she sat down with a patient, despairing look, merely motioning to Hagar by an imploring gesture, to leave the room. “Well! let’s go into the kitchen and warm ourselves at Aunt Cumbo’s fire,” suggested the ever hopeful Rosalia. They left the parlor by a back door that led through a sort of closet into the kitchen. The storm was still raging, but a good fire was burning on the kitchen hearth, and the tea-kettle was singing over the blaze, and old Cumbo was standing at a table kneading dough. “Are you going to have biscuits for supper, Aunt Cumbo?” asked Rosalia, in a coaxing tone, as she approached the table. “Now, what you comin’ out here botherin’ arter me for, when I am gettin’ supper—go ’long in de house wid you.” The old woman happened to be in a bad humor. “But, Aunt Cumbo, we are cold—we want to warm ourselves,” coaxed Rose. “Mayn’t we warm ourselves by your fire?”