Robert saw that he was still suspected, and began to mount the stairs without a pretext. Up and up he went, followed by the young man, till they reached a place where the stairs gave out, and they stood directly under the roof. “Here is the room, sir,” said Robert, gently opening a door, and revealing a picture within the little apartment which arrested young Savage where he stood. This was the picture. A young girl with raven black hair, so black that a purplish bloom lay on its ripples, stood upon the hearth, stooping over a delicate little boy, whose meagre white face was uplifted to hers with a piteous look of suffering. An old woman, in a low, easy-chair, sat close by the child, who huddled himself against her knees, and clung to her garments as if he had been pleading for something. In the background was a lead-colored mantle-piece, a hollow fireplace, and a few half extinguished embers dying out in a bed of ashes. It was a gloomy picture, yet not without warmth and beauty; for the dying sunbeams came through the window, goldenly as an artist would have thrown them on canvas; and the pure, delicate face of the child was like a head of St. John. Never on this earth did human genius embody a more lovely idea of the Madonna than Anna Burns made, with her worn dress of crimson merino, her narrow collar and cuffs of white linen standing out warmly from the sombre brown of the grandmother’s dress. Savage unconsciously lifted the hat from his head, and stood upon the threshold struck with a sort of reverence. Anna was speaking to the child, and did not observe him, or her brother. Her voice, saddened by grief, fell upon his ear with a pathos that thrilled him. “Wait a little—only a little while, darling,” she said. “Don’t plead so, I will go again. You shall have something to eat, if I beg for it in the street, only do not look at me so.” “But I am so hungry,” pleaded the child. “I know it—I know it! Oh, grandma! what can I do?” She changed her position, then, and wringing her hands, went to the window, thus breaking up the picture, and sobbing piteously. Young Savage entered the room, then, reverently, as if he were passing by a shrine. “Madam—young lady, I have come from—from my mother.” Anna turned, and saw this strange young man standing before her, with his head uncovered, and his handsome face beaming with generous emotion. She hastily brushed the tears from her eyes, and, unconsciously, smoothed her hair with one hand, ashamed of the disorder into which her grief had thrown it. “My name is Savage,” continued the young man, while a faint smile quivered over his lips, as he observed this little feminine movement. “I met this boy, your brother, I think. I—I wish to settle my mother’s account. Pray tell me how much it is?” “I beg pardon. I am very, very sorry to trouble any one so much. Indeed——”