"You shall stay--now go to sleep--you shall stay. Is it not so, John?" said Mrs. Chester turning to her husband. "Yes," said Chester, "the child shall stay with us; let her go to sleep." They all slept sweetly that night; Chester, his wife, little Isabel, and the orphan, and such dreams as they had--such soft, bright dreams. Could you have seen them slumbering beneath the humble roof, smiling tranquilly on their pillows, you might have fancied that those little rooms were swarming with invisible angels--spirits from paradise that had come down to make a little heaven of the poor man's home. Indeed, I am not quite sure that the idea would have been all fancy--for Charity, that brightest spirit of heaven, was there, and what a glorious troop she always brings in her train. Talk of flinging your bread upon the waters, waiting for it to be cast up after many days--why the very joy of casting the bread you have earned with your own strength upon the bright waves of humanity, is reward enough for the true heart. CHAPTER V. THE MAYOR AND THE ALDERMAN. A smooth and subtle man was he-- Of crafty heart and Christian mien; His wisdom--cheating sophistry, Flung o'er his sins a mocking sheen. Chester had business with the Chief of Police, and about nine o'clock the next morning, after his adventure with the orphan, he passed into the Park, through the south entrance, on his way to the Chief's office. At the same moment, his Honor the Mayor came through a gate near the corner of Chambers street, and walked with calm and stately deliberation toward the City Hall. Nothing could have been more precise or perfect than the outward man, which his honor exhibited to the gaze of his constituents. Neatly-fitting boots, square toed, and of the most elaborate manufacture, encased his feet. Not a speck defiled their high polish; the very dust and mud which introduces itself cosily into the habiliments of your common, warm hearted men, seemed to shrink away chilled and repulsed by the immaculate coldness that clung like an atmosphere around the Mayor of New York. The nap of his hat lay shining and smooth as satin; so deeply and thoroughly was it brushed down into the stock, that it seemed as if a whirlwind would have failed to ripple the fur. His black coat, his satin vest and plaited linen presented a glossy and spotless surface to the winter sun. His black gloves--in New York we have a great many public funerals, and the city supplies mourning gloves to the Common Council--his black gloves were neatly buttoned, and above them lay his snow-white wristbands, folded carefully over the cuffs of his coat, and his right hand grasped a prudish-looking cane which seemed part and parcel of the man.