the house, and thought that perhaps her grandfather lived in as
good style as Mrs. Gordon, and that she might some day go to
Liverpool and be an inmate of just such a palace. The door of the
sitting-room was open, and she had an opportunity to look at all
the fine things it contained. She had never seen anything so
luxurious before, and I must say that she regretted the poverty
of her lot, which deprived her mother and herself of them.

All round the room hung pictures in costly frames. Some of them
were portraits; and one which hung over the mantelpiece directly
before her, soon attracted her attention, and made her forget the
soft divans, the beautiful carpet, and the rich draperies of the
windows. It was the portrait of a lady, and her expression was
very like that of her mother--so like that she could almost
believe the picture had been painted for her mother. Yet that
could not be, for the lady was young, and plump, and rosy, and
wore rich laces, and a costly dress. She seemed to look down upon
her from the golden frame with a smile of satisfaction. There was
something roguish in her eye, as though she was on the point of
bursting into a laugh at some mischief she had perpetrated. O,
no! that could not be her mother; she had never seen her look
like that. But there was something that seemed very much like
her; and the more she looked at it, the more the picture
fascinated her. She tried to look at something else, but the lady
appeared to have fixed her gaze upon her, and, whichever way she
turned, those laughing eyes followed her, and brought back her
attention to the canvas again.

In vain she attempted to fasten her mind upon some of the other
portraits. There was an elderly gentleman, with a full red face;