It was a charming sight to watch the motions of her tiny fingers as she pursued her task; and though the posture she adopted was not the most favourable that might have been chosen for the display of her sylphlike figure, there was something in her attitude, and the glow of her countenance, lighted up by the mellow radiance of the setting sun falling upon her through the panes of the little dormer-window, that seemed to the youth inexpressibly beautiful. But it is not your name. He could lose himself for hours at a time. "Mother!" she echoed,—"mother! why do you call me by that name?" "Because you are my mother. E. Old Bedlam. You only live a block away!” 236 “I’ll do my best.
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