“Yes, uncle?”

“You—­you are old enough to understand things, my boy,” went on his uncle, with quavering voice.  “Suppose, after I’m dead and gone, Harriet should want help.  She won’t make many friends, I fear, and she’ll have bad health.  Suppose she was in want of any kind,—­ you’d stand by her, Julian, wouldn’t you?  You’d be a friend to her, —­always?”

“Indeed I would, uncle!” exclaimed the boy stoutly.

“You promise me that, Julian, this Christmas night?—­you promise it?”

“Yes, I promise, uncle.  You’ve always been kind and good to me, and see if I’m not the same to Harriet.”

His voice trembled with generous emotion.

“No, I sha’n’t see it, my boy,” said Smales, shaking his head drearily; “but the promise will be a comfort to me at the end, a comfort to me.  You’re a good lad, Julian!”

Silence came upon them again.

In the same district, in one of a row of semi-detached houses standing in gardens, lived Ida’s little friend, Maud Enderby, with her aunt, Miss Bygrave, a lady of forty-two or forty-three.  The rooms were small and dark; the furniture sparse, old-fashioned, and much worn; there were no ornaments in any of the rooms, with the exception of a few pictures representing the saddest incidents in the life of Christ.  On entering the front door you were oppressed by the chill, damp atmosphere, and by a certain unnatural stillness.  The stairs were not carpeted, but stained a dark colour; a footfall upon them, however light, echoed strangely as if from empty chambers above.  There was no sign of lack of repair; perfect order and cleanliness wherever the eye penetrated; yet the general effect was an unspeakable desolation.

Maud Enderby, on reaching home after her meeting with Ida, entered the front parlour, and sat down in silence near the window, where faint daylight yet glimmered.  The room was without fire.  Over the mantelpiece hung an engraving of the Crucifixion; on the opposite wall were the Agony in the Garden, and an Entombment; all after old masters.  The centre table, a few chairs, and a small sideboard were the sole articles of furniture.  The table was spread with a white cloth; upon it were a loaf of bread, a pitcher containing milk, two plates, and two glasses.

Maud sat in the cold room for a quarter of an hour; it became quite dark.  Then was heard a soft footstep descending the stairs; the door opened, and a lady came in, bearing a lighted lamp, which she stood upon the table.  She was tall, very slender, and with a face which a painter might have used to personify the spiritual life.  Its outlines were of severe perfection; its expression a confirmed grief, subdued by, and made subordinate to, the consciousness of an inward strength which could convert suffering into triumph.  Her garment was black, of the simplest possible design.  In looking at Maud, as the child rose from the chair, it was scarcely affection that