The child was surrendered by common consent to the care of a kind-hearted woman, by the name of Dame Tatton, who was a widow. She looked with an eye of trembling pity upon the little innocent who nestled in her bosom in sobbing fear. The little girl, for such she was, showed evidently by her attire that she had been in the care of those of a far higher rank in life than the kind-hearted, but humble cottager, who now strove to allay her childish terror. Around the neck of the infant was a small necklace of pearls, and about its attire generally there were ample indications of wealth. The little innocent soon sobbed itself to sleep upon the breast of Dame Tatton, and the village gossips, after resolving in the morning to go in a body to the Squire Learmont and ask his advice, or rather commands, concerning the disposal of the babe that had been so mysteriously thrown upon their hands, dispersed to seek that repose they were so much in need of. Every one naturally thought that Andrew Britton, the smith, knew something of the mysterious man and the child; but none would venture to the dwelling of “The Savage,” as he was generally called, to make an inquiry, for his ferocity was too well known not to be universally dreaded. The storm had nearly gone. A heavy fall of rain was splashing on the meadows, and beaten down vegetation, and all was still in Learmont till the morning’s sun rose on the wreck which the tempest had made in the green valley that the day before was redolent of peace and plenty. Young and old then sought the cottage of Dame Tatton. They knocked at first gently, then more loudly, but no one answered. “My mind misgives me,” cried the young man who had the preceding evening spoken so boldly to the smith—“my mind misgives me; but there is something wrong. Let us force the door, my masters.” “Nay, Frank,” said an old man. “The widow sleeps soundly after the storm. Ye are too hasty—far too hasty, Frank Hartleton.” “Nay to thee!” cried the impetuous youth. “’Tis but a broken panel at the utmost, and we do force the dame’s door, and that we can any of us mend again. What say you masters?” “Aye, truly,” replied a little man with a red night-cap—“spoken truly—most sagely spoken.” “But will the squire approve of it, think ye?” suggested one. “By my shears I thought not of that,” murmured the little man, who was the garment fashioner of Learmont. “Knock again,” cried several. Frank Hartleton knocked loudly, and shouted,— “Dame Tatton—Dame Tatton, I say; hast taken a sleeping draught?” No voice replied. All was as still as the grave within the cottage. Frank now placed his foot against the frail door, and with one vigorous push he sent it flat upon the earthen floor of the cottage, and immediately striding over it, he entered the humble dwelling.