“Why, Ned, you darling! look here!”
They have found, among the rest, a picture which Ned has not seen before. It brings tears to his eyes again, to Belle’s, too; the grim old lawyer’s lips twitch for a moment, and he goes off and has the painting framed in most costly style, and hangs it above the mantel in his study. Perhaps it may serve as reminder of a bit of a sentence, spoken centuries ago, which fortune-favored people, snuggling about the ingleside on boisterous winter nights, are very apt to forget: “The poor ye have always with you.”
You may imagine the faithful Jeannette is not neglected. The sunniest spot in the cemetery is where a marble cross tells you that Ernest is sleeping below. And the picture, what is it? It is a glimpse, in brown and amber tints, of a wretched attic chamber with dilapidated ceiling, and scant, worn-out furniture, and bare, uneven floor. And the only light there comes from the face peeping in through a door which stands ajar—a boyish face, round and merry, with ruddy cheeks, and big, heartful eyes, and brown bits of curls clustering about the broad forehead—a frank, open, cheery, winsome face. Now, away from the light which streams from this face and into the sombre shadows, frightened demons are turning to flee. And one of the demons whose gloomy features are partly visible, and whose hand grasps a dagger, you may guess was meant for Despair. This picture has a name. Ernest painted it underneath, in large letters of scarlet and gold. This is the name—Sunshine.
CZAR AND CARPENTER.
“Dear Rudolph, art thou not well?” asks his mother, in that native language which she loves. “For some time past thou hast been so very quiet, and—” there she pauses, not wanting to remind him of how fretful and ill-natured he has been of late.
“Feel well enough!” he answers gruffly, and then is sorry, and wishes he had gone to rest ten minutes ago, as he thought of doing.
A tiny cloud of displeasure flits across the sweet, gentle face, and little Karl, leaning against his mother’s chair, twines an arm about her neck, and smooths her sunny hair, as if to make amends. As for Rudolph’s father, stern words spring to his lips; but suspecting what is the trouble, he withholds them, only glancing up from his book with eyes so full of unutterable sadness that the boy creeps guiltily out of the room, and off to his chamber above.
This is the trouble with Rudolph—he is haunted; haunted by a demon whose name is Discontent. It first appeared to him one evening in a certain elegant mansion on a certain fashionable avenue, whither he had been sent with a message; for his father was to do some repairing there. In the spacious, high-ceiled, oak-paneled library, where he waited to see the master of the house, this little demon stole up to him and whispered:
“Look at it—at all this splendor! these tall mirrors, and huge chandeliers, and rich paintings, and carved cases of books! You never saw the like, did you?”