more than a little skeleton. Sitting down on the only chair in the room,
which the man had vacated--the woman crouched on an inverted box--Amy
said, "Leonard, please bring me the milk we brought."

After it had been warmed a little the child drank it with avidity.
Leonard stood in the background and sadly shook his head as he watched
the scene, the fire-light flickering on Amy's pure profile and
tear-dimmed eye as she watched the starved babe taking from her hand the
food that the brutish mother on the opposite side of the hearth was
incapable of giving it.

He never forgot that picture--the girl's face beautiful with a divine
compassion, the mother's large sensual features half hidden by her snaky
locks as she leaned stupidly over the fire, the dusky flickering shadows
that filled the room, in which the mountaineer's head loomed like that of
a shaggy beast. Even his rude nature was impressed, and he exclaimed,

"Gad! the likes of that was never seen in these parts afore!"

"Oh, sir," cried Amy, turning to him, "can you not see that your little
child is hungry?"

"Well,--the woman, she's drunk, and s'pose I be too, somewhat."

"Come, Lumley, be more civil," said Leonard. "The young lady isn't used
to such talk."

"Oh, it all seems so dreadful!" exclaimed Amy, her tears falling faster.

The man drew a step or two nearer, and looked at her wonderingly; then,