She tried to go down to her knees, but fell prone on the floor. Max, who would have thought, the day before, that this day I should have been sitting with Lydia Cartwright's head on my lap, trying to bring her back to this miserable life of hers; that papa would have stood by and seen me do it, without a word of blame! "It's the hunger," cried the mother. "You see, she isn't used to it, now; he always kept her like a lady." Papa turned, and walked out of the cottage. I afterwards found out that he had bought the loaf at the baker's shop down the village, and got the bottle of wine from his private cupboard in the vestry. He returned with both--one in each pocket--then, sitting down on a chair, cut the bread and poured out the wine, and fed these three himself, with his own hands. My dear father! Nor did he draw back when, as she recovered, the first word that came to the wretched girl's lips was "Francis." "Mother, beg them to tell me about him. I'll do him no harm, indeed I won't, neither him nor them. Is he married? Or," with a sudden gasp, "is he dead? I've thought sometimes he must be, or he never would have left the child and me. He was always fond of us, wasn't he, Franky?" I told her, to the best of my knowledge, Mr. Charteris was living, but what had become of him we could none of us guess. We never saw him now. Here, looking wistfully at me, Lydia seemed suddenly to remember old times, to become conscious of what she used to be, and what she was now. Also, in a vague sort of way, of how guilty she had been towards her mistress and our family. How long, or how deep the feeling was, I cannot judge, but she certainly did feel. She hung her head, and tried to draw herself away from my arm. "I'd rather not trouble you, Miss Dora, thank you." I said it was no trouble, she had better lie still till she felt stronger. "You don't mean that. Not such as me." I told her she must know she had done very wrong, but if she was sorry for it, I was sorry for her, and we would help her if we could to an honest livelihood. "What, and the child too?" I looked towards papa; he answered distinctly, but sternly:--"Principally for the sake of the child." Lydia began to sob. She attempted no exculpation--expressed no penitence--just lay and sobbed, like a child. She is hardly more, even yet--only nineteen, I believe. So we sat--papa as silent as we, resting on his stick, with his eyes fixed on the cottage floor, till Lydia turned to me with a sort of fright. . "What would Miss Johnston say if she knew?" I wondered, indeed, what my sister would say. And here, Max--you will hardly credit it, nobody would, if it were an incident in a book--something occurred which, even now, seems hardly possible--as if I must have dreamt it all.