"But a few rods, sir--a little further on toward the beach," said the fisherman, regarding him in some surprise. "I will go down there and see that unfortunate woman, if you will guide me," said Howard. "I believe that she is a friend of mine. You may return their pence to those poor fishermen, who can ill spare it, perhaps. I will charge myself with her expenses even if she should not prove to be the person I think she is." The fisherman looked at him admiringly and hastened to do his bidding. Then they walked along to the widow's cottage very slowly, for Howard found himself exceedingly awkward in the use of his crutch. But after all it seemed but a very few minutes before they stood in the one poor little room of Dame Videlet's dilapidated cot bowing to the kind old soul who had taken the poor wayfarer in beneath the shelter of her lowly roof, shared her simple crust with her, and tended her with kindly, Christian hands. "How is your patient to-day, my kind woman?" inquired the young man. "Ah, sir, ah, sir, you may even see for yourself," she answered sadly, as she turned toward the bed. Howard went forward with a quickened heart-beat, and stood by her side looking down at the sufferer. Yes there she lay--poor little Lora--with wide, unrecognizing, black eyes, with cheeks crimson with fever and parted lips through which the breath came pantingly. A heavy sigh broke unconsciously from Howard's lips. "Good sir, do you know her?" asked the woman, regarding him anxiously. "Yes, I know her," he answered; "she is a friend of mine and has wandered away from her home in the delirium of fever. You shall be richly rewarded for your noble care of her." "I ask no reward but the blessing of Heaven, sir," said the good old woman, piously; "I have done the best I could for her ever since she staggered into the door and asked me for her lost baby." As if the word struck some sensitive chord in her consciousness, Lora turned her wild, bright eyes upon Howard's face, and murmured in a pathetic whisper: "Have you found my baby--Jack's baby and mine?" Alas for Xenie's secret, guarded with such patient care and sleepless vigilance. Howard looked down upon her with a mist of tears before his sight--she looked so fair, and young, and sorrowful, lying there calling for her lost little child. "I have lost my baby, I have lost my baby!" she wailed aloud, throwing her arms wildly over her head and tangling her fingers in the long, dark tresses floating over the pillow in their beautiful luxuriance. "It is lost, lost, lost, my darling little one! It will perish in the rain and the cold!" Involuntarily Howard reached out and took one of the restless white hands in his, and held it in a firm and tender clasp. "Lora, Lora," he said, in a gentle, persuasive voice, "listen to me. The baby is _found_. Xenie found it on the shore where you lost it out of your arms. It is safe--it is well, with Xenie."