How I got to the spot I hardly know; how the child escaped I know still less; it was almost a miracle. But there stood Penelope, with the little fellow in her arms. He was unhurt--not even frightened. I took him from her--she was still too bewildered to observe him much--besides, a child alters so in six months. "He is all right you see. Run away, little man." "Stop! there is his mother to be thought of," said Penelope; "where does he live? whose child is he?" Before I could answer, the grandmother ran out, calling "Franky--Franky." It was all over. No concealment was possible. I made my sister sit down by the roadside, and there, with her head on my shoulder, she sat till her deadly paleness passed away, and two tears slowly rose and rolled down her cheeks; but she said nothing. Again I impressed upon her what a great comfort it was that the boy had escaped without one scratch; for there he stood, having once more got away from his granny, staring at us, finger in mouth, with intense curiosity and enjoyment. "Off with you! "--I cried more than once. But he kept his ground; and when I rose to put him away--my sister held me. Often I have noticed, that in her harshest days Penelope never disliked nor was disliked by children. She had a sort of instinct for them. They rarely vexed her, as we, or her servants, or her big scholars always unhappily contrived to do. And she could always manage them, from the squalling baby that she stopped to pat at a cottage door, to the raggedest young scamp in the village, whom she would pick up after a pitched battle, give a good scolding to, then hear all his tribulations, dry his dirty face, and send him away with a broad grin upon it, such as was upon Franky's now. He came nearer, and put his brown little paws upon Penelope's silk gown. "The pony," she muttered; "Dora, go and see after the pony." But when I was gone, and she thought herself unseen, I saw her coax the little lad to her side, to her arms, hold him there and kiss him;--oh! Max, I can't write of it; I could not tell it to anybody but you. After keeping away as long as was practicable, I returned, to find Franky gone, and my sister walking slowly up and down; her veil was down, but her voice and step had their usual "old-maidish" quietness,--if I dared without a sob at the heart, even think that word concerning our Penelope! Leaving her to get into the carriage, I just ran into the cottage to tell Mrs. Cartwright what had happened, and assure her that the child had received no possible harm; when, who should I see sitting over the fire but the last person I ever expected to see in that place! Did you know it?--was it by your advice he came?--what could be his motive in coming? or was it done merely for a whim---just like Francis Charteris.