The plate glass was all in a blaze from a chandelier that hung within,
and the genial glow fell upon that little frost-bitten face, lighting
it up with intense lustre. The face was not beautiful--those features
were too pale--the eyes large and hollow, while black lashes of
unusual length gave them a wild depth of color that was absolutely
fearful. Still there was something in the expression of those wan
features indescribably touching--a look of meek suffering and of moral
strength unnatural in its development. It was the face of a child,
suffering, feeble, with the expression of a holy spirit breaking
through, holy but tortured.

The child clung to the railing, waving to and fro, but holding on
with a desperate grasp. She seemed struggling to lift herself to an
upright position, but without sufficient strength. Chester advanced
a step to help her, but drew back, for, without perceiving him, she
was creeping feebly up the steps, with her face shrouded in darkness
again. She reached the bell with difficulty, and drew the silver knob.

Scarcely had the child taken her hand from the cold metal, when the
shadow of a man crossed the drawing-room window, and his measured
step sounded along the oilcloth in the hall. The door was unfastened,
and the Mayor himself stood in the opening. The child lifted her eyes,
and saw standing before, or rather above her, a tall man with light
hair turning grey, and a cast of features remarkable only for an
absence of all generous expression. He fixed his cold eyes on the
little wanderer with a look that chilled her worse than the frost.
As he prepared to speak, she could see the corners of his mouth curve
haughtily downward, and when his voice fell upon her ear, though not
particularly loud, it was cold and repelling.