ful. That picture is a most
beautiful one, and by a favourite artist, and will bring at least
two hundred dollars. It is not a necessary article of household
furniture, and is not covered by the law. We should be censured, and
justly too, if we were to pass it."

For a few moments, Mr. Morton's thoughts were so bewildered and his
feelings so benumbed by the sudden and unexpected shock, that he
could not rally his mind enough to decide what to say or how to act.
To have the unfeeling hands of creditors, under the sanction of the
law, seize upon his lost Willie's portrait, was to him so unexpected
and sacrilegious a thing, that he could scarcely realize it, and he
stood wrapt in painful, dreamy abstraction, until roused by the
direction,

"Put it down at a hundred and fifty," given to the appraiser, by one
of the trustees.

"Are your hearts made of iron?" he asked bitterly, roused at once
into a distinct consciousness of what was transpiring.

"Be composed, Mr. Morton," was the cold, quiet reply.

"And thus might the executioner say to the victim he was
torturing--_Be composed_. But surely, when I tell you that that
picture is the likeness of my youngest child, now no more, you will
not take it from us. To lose that, would break his mother's heart.
Take all the rest, and I will not murmur. But in the name of
humanity spare me the portrait of my angel boy."

There was a brief, cold, silent pause, and the trustees continued
their investigations. Sick at heart, Mr. Morton turned from them and
sought his family. The distressed, almost agonized expression of his
countenance was noticed, as he came into the chamber where they had
retired.

"Is it all over?" asked Mrs. Morton.

"Not yet," was the sad answer.

The mother and daughter knew how much their father prized his choice
collection of pictures, and supposed that giving an inventory of
them had produced the pain that he seemed to feel. Of the truth,
they had not the most distant idea. For a few minutes he sat with
them, and then, recovering in some degree, his self-possession, he
returned and kept with the trustees, until everything in the house
that could be taken, was valued. He closed the door after them, when
they left, and again returned to his family.

"Have they gone?" asked Constance, in a low, almost whispering
voice.

"Yes, my child, they have gone at last."

"And what have they left us?" inquired Mrs. Morton somewhat
anxiously.

"Nothing but t