Denham

Mrs. Denham sat in her parlour, a two years old baby boy asleep upon her lap, and an anxious, mournful expression upon her face. She wore the dress of a widow, -a dress so new in its folds that it was evidently but a short time since the Dread Messenger had paused at her threshold to bear away its master and bread-winner. The room was a shabby one; the fire but a handful of dusty ashes; rain fell without in the dreary street; it was growing dusk, and a soul-depressing cry of ＂Want chee-e-ep? Do ye want chee-e-eps?＂ arose ever and anon, as the ragged Irish chip boy wandered up and down. It was a street of cheap houses in the suburbs of Liverpool, where the misery of poor gentility is perhaps more without alloy than in any other town. But the door burst open, and a bright-faced, rosy, blue-eyed boy entered, with the freshness of out-of-doors upon him.