Thoughts like these often occupied the mind of Mr. Grim. Such were his thoughts as he sat in his luxurious parlor, one bleak December evening, surrounded by every external comfort his heart could desire, when a child not over seven or eight years of age was brought into the room by a servant, who said, as he entered—
"Here's a little girl that says she wants to see you."
Mr. Grim, turned, and looked for a moment or two at the visiter. She was the child of poor parents; that was evident from her coarse and meager garments.
"Do you wish to see me?" he inquired, in a voice that was meant to be repulsive.
"Yes, sir," timidly answered the child.
"Well, what do you want?"
"My mother wants you."
"Your mother! Who's your mother?"
"Mrs. Dyer."
The manner of Mr. Grim changed instantly; and he said—