"Her family! At last, then, they have remembered the poor abandoned one. Oh, my good monsieur, she has suffered greatly! Go! Take the stairs. You will find a bell near her room; but if you prefer it, I will announce you. Your name? Perhaps she will refuse to see you."
"She will not recognize my name," replied Jacob.
"In that case, do as you think best, monsieur; to the right."
The staircase was old and dirty, with broken and uneven steps, and in place of a balustrade a rope was strung from one end to the other. Through the open doors of the rooms he could see large chinks in the walls through which came the heat and rain in summer, the cold and snow in winter.
Jacob knocked two or three times at the door; receiving no response, he decided to open it gently. The spectacle which met his eyes was heartrending. A chamber, or rather a miserable garret, destitute of furniture, was dimly lighted by a little window sunk in the wall. In one corner was a pallet, and by its side an old broken-down cradle which had done service for several generations. With her head leaning on a table a young woman slept. She had evidently been overcome suddenly by fatigue, for she still held in her hand some coarse cloth on which she had been working. Her feet touched the cradle in which reposed a feeble and sickly babe. The nourishment that the poor little thing drew from the maternal breast was not sufficient to develop its strength and vitality.
Lia opened her eyes, swollen with slumber; she believed that the intruder had made a mistake in the room, and remained silent and inert. Her sunken eyes and sad but calm expression denoted habitual suffering with resignation to misery.
Jacob stood on the threshold, undecided. Lia spoke at last and said: "Monsieur, what do you wish? Why do you come here? Who are you?"
"I come from your relations."
"I have no relations; I am an orphan," replied she apprehensively.
"I am sent for your good," said Jacob. "Do not be afraid. I do not bring bad news," said he tenderly.