“They will never cease thinking of us, darlings,” said Anna. “God help us! we are not alone. Thousands of helpless children are made orphans with us, all mourning as we do.” “Oh! how sorry I am for them!” cried Robert. “Some may be little babies, with no brother that can do things to take care of them. You are better off than that, grandmother.” “I dare say a great many are in a worse condition than we are, child. Some have no friends. Let us be thankful and patient.” “Yes, grandmother, we will.” “Now go to bed, boys, and try to sleep.” “May we say our prayers here—the closet is so dark?” “Yes, dear!” “Will he know it? Will he hear us?” whispered Joseph. “Yes, darling, I think so; I am sure of it.” “That is almost like having him here,” was the gentle answer. “He is here,” said Anna, smiling through her tears, “my heart is so still and quiet. It seems as if a dove were brooding over it.” CHAPTER VII. THE UNCLE FLEECED. Two young men sat in the parlor of the Continental. It was after dark, and the chandelier was lighted over a small, round dinner-table, spread elaborately, at which the two young men had just completed a sumptuous repast. They had both taken segars, as a luxurious conclusion to the meal; and, leaning back in the coziest of Turkish chairs, were chatting socially together, while clouds of thin purplish smoke curled and eddied lazily over the rich confusion of the table, where fruit glowing in silver baskets; claret jugs cut into sharp ridges of light like splintered ice; tiny glasses, amber-hued, green, or ruby red, half full of rich wines from many a choice vintage, were crowded close and huddled together like jewels on a queen’s toilet. Here and there the glossy whiteness of the tablecloth was stained, like a map, with a little sea of pink champagne, or oceans of claret, proving that there had been some unsteadiness of the hand at the latter portion of the banquet. Indeed, the cheeks of these two young men were hotly flushed with scarlet, which glowed through the smoke as it curled from their lips. “So you are at last taken in and done for?” said one of the men, flirting the ashes from his segar with a little finger, on which a small diamond glittered like a spark of fire. “I don’t believe you are in earnest yet, and shan’t till you’ve slept on it at least forty-eight hours. What kind of an angel is she—blonde, or brunette, _petite_, or queenly?” “No matter about that, Ward. I have no taste for showing up a woman’s points as if she were a racehorse. She is beautiful, and that should satisfy you.” “But who is she?” “That is the question. She is somebody that Madam Savage chooses to patronize without deigning to make explanations.” “Did she introduce you?”