Cowering in a corner upon a heap of straw sat his unfortunate mother, the complete wreck of what she had been. " "Who told you this is his portrait?" demanded Trenchard. What was yet more worthy of note was, that the widow's countenance had an air of refinement about it, of which it was utterly destitute before, and which seemed to intimate that her true position in society was far above that wherein accident had placed her. ‘I am nine-and-twenty,’ he answered. We are very poor, but manage to squeeze a little happiness out of each day. Wood had been my father, as well as yours. Yours?" The stranger hesitated. It doesn’t matter.
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