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 the barest necessaries for housekeeping."
"They did not take our carpets and--"
"Yes, Mary," said Mr. Morton interrupting her, "every article in the
parlors has been set down as unnecessary.
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