"Yes, my child, they have gone at last."
"And what have they left us?" inquired Mrs. Morton somewhat anxiously.
"Nothing but the barest necessaries for housekeeping."
"They did not take our carpets and—"
"Yes, Mary," said Mr. Morton interrupting her, "every article in the parlors has been set down as unnecessary."
"O, father!" exclaimed the eldest daughter, "can it be possible?"
"Yes, my child, it is possible. We are left poor, indeed. But for all that I would not care, if they had only left us Willie's portrait!"
Instantly the mother and daughters rose to their feet, with blanched cheeks, and eyes staring wildly into the father's face.
"O no, not Willie's portrait, surely!" the mother at length said, mournfully. "We cannot give that up. It is of no comparative value to others, and is all in all to us."
"I plead with them to spare us that. But it was no use," Mr. Morton replied. "The tenderest ties in nature were nothing to them in comparison with a hundred and fifty dollars."