“He is, indeed, a sweet child—­and the image of his poor, sick, almost heart-broken mother, for whom I am trying to awaken an interest.  She has two children, and this one is the oldest.  Her husband is dead, or what may be as bad, perhaps worse, as far as she is concerned, dead to her; and she does not seem to have a relative in the world, at least none who thinks about or cares for her.  In trying to provide for her children, she has overtasked her delicate frame, and made herself sick.  Unless something is done for her, a worse thing must follow.  She must go to the Alms-house, and be separated from her children.  Look into the sweet, innocent face of this dear child, and let your heart say whether he ought to be taken from his mother.  If she have a woman’s feelings, must she not love this child tenderly; and can any one supply to him his mother’s place?”

“I will do something for her, certainly,” Mr. Crawford said.

“I wish thee would go with me to see her.”

“There is no use in that.  My seeing her can do no good.  Get all you can for her, and then come to me.  I will help in the good work cheerfully,” replied Mr. Crawford.

“That is thy dwelling, I believe,” said the Quaker, looking around at a house adjoining the one before which they stood.

“Yes, that is my house,” returned Crawford.

“Will thee take this little boy in with thee, and keep him for a few minutes, while I go to see a friend some squares off?”

“Oh, certainly.  Come with me, dear!” And Mr. Crawford held out his hand to the child, who took it without hesitation.

“I will see thee in a little while,” said the Quaker, as he turned away.

The boy, who was plainly, but very neatly dressed, was about four years old.  He had a more than usually attractive face; and an earnest look out of his mild eyes, that made every one who saw him his friend.

“What is your name, my dear?” asked Mr. Crawford, as he sat down in his parlor, and took the little fellow upon his knee.

“Henry,” replied the child.  He spoke with distinctness; and, as he spoke, there was a sweet expression of the lips and eyes, that was particularly winning.

“It is Henry, is it?”

“Yes, sir,”

“What else besides Henry?”

The boy did not reply, for he had fixed his eyes upon a picture that hung over the mantle, and was looking at it intently.  The eyes of Mr. Crawford followed those of the child, that rested, he found, on the portrait of his daughter.

“What else besides, Henry?” he repeated.

“Henry Logan,” replied the child, looking for a moment into the face of Mr. Crawford, and then turning to gaze at the picture on the wall.  Every nerve quivered in the frame of that man of iron will.  The falling of a bolt from a sunny sky could not have startled and surprised him more.  He saw in the face of the child, the moment be looked at him, something strangely familiar and attractive.  What it was, he did not, until this instant, comprehend.  But it was no longer a mystery.