One cold noon in October, when the clouds were miles deep in front of the sun, when the rain was falling thick on the yellow leaves, and all the paths were miry, the two children sat by the kitchen fire. Sarah was cooking their mid-day meal, which had come from her own pocket. She was the only servant either of them had known in the house, and she would not leave it until some one should take charge of them. The neighbours, dreading infection, did not come near them. Clare sat on a little stool with Mary on his knees, nestling in his bosom; but he felt dreary, for he saw no love-firmament over him; the cloud of death hid it. With a sudden jingle and rattle, up drove a rickety post-chaise to the door of the parsonage. Out of it, and into the kitchen, came stalking a tall middle-aged woman, in a long black cloak, black bonnet, and black gloves, with a face at once stern and peevish. “I am the late Mrs. Porson’s sister,” she said, and stood. Sarah courtesied and waited. Clare rose, with Mary in his arms. “This is little Maly, ma’am,” he said, offering her the child. “Set her down, and let me see her,” she answered. Clare obeyed. Mary put her finger in her mouth, and began to cry. She did not like the look of the black aunt, and was not used to a harsh voice. “Tut! tut!” said the black aunt. “Crying already! That will never do! Show me her things.” Sarah felt stunned. This was worse than death! “If only the mistress had taken them with her!” she said to herself. Mary’s things--they were not many--were soon packed. Within an hour she was borne off, shrieking, struggling, and calling “Clay.” The black aunt, however,--as the black aunt Clare always thought of her--cared nothing for her resistance; and Clare, who at her first cry was rushing to the rescue, ready once more to do battle for her, was seized and held back by Farmer Goodenough. Sarah had sent for him, and he had come--just in time to frustrate Clare’s valour. The carriage was not yet out of sight, when Farmer Goodenough began to repent that he had come: his presence was an acknowledgment of responsibility! Something must be done with the foundling! There was nobody to claim him, and nobody wanted him! He had always liked the boy, but he did not want him! His wife was not fond of the boy, nor of any boy, and did not want him! He had said to her that Clare could not be left to starve, and she had answered, “Why not?”! What was to be done with him? Nobody knew--any more than Clare himself. But which of us knows what is going to be done with him?