"I have again to communicate sorrowful news. Mr. Austin was taken ill and died in a few hours. He had only strength to ask me to write and tell you that he was sensible of your own and Colonel Austin's past goodness to him, and to implore you, in the event of his death, to save his darling from the workhouse—the only shelter open to her, unless you would be her friend. I promised to care for her until your answer should arrive. I only wish I could keep her altogether, for she is one of the loveliest and sweetest little creatures I ever saw, though now fretting incessantly after her father, who was buried yesterday." "You will, however, be better able to judge from her photograph than from any description of mine." "As to Mr. Edward Austin's affairs, it appears that there were some trifling debts; but these and the funeral expenses will be covered by the sale of his furniture and some articles of jewellery, etc. Fortunately, he left a written document empowering a gentleman to dispose of all these things; so that I have nothing to do with any business matters. My promise will have been fulfilled when I have given the child into your care, if you will consent to receive her." "Regretting that I am a second time the bearer of sorrowful tidings—I am, dear madam," "Yours very faithfully," "LAURA ALLINGTON." Mrs. Austin refolded the letter, and again took up the photograph, at which she gazed with increasing admiration. "Your mind is made up, dear mistress. I can see it in your face. All I have to do is to obey your will, and make the best of it," said Barbara. "I do not see how I can send any answer, except that I am willing to take charge of the child; and, in spite of your croaking, dear nurse, I shall look upon her as a true Godsend." "I pray that she may prove so," said Barbara; and, lifting her mistress's hand to her lips, she kissed it tenderly. "Nay, kiss me, Barbara—good, true, life-long friend!" said Mrs. Austin; and drawing the nurse's head towards her, she embraced her affectionately. "You forgive my croaking, then. It all came of my anxiety that no harm should happen you or yours through your very good doing," she replied. Then, as if a new thought suggested suspicion, Barbara asked— "Have you the letters Mrs. Allington wrote two years ago? This hand is a strange one to me. I do not think I ever saw it before, and yet I brought all that lady's letters to you at the time. I seldom forget writing." "I destroyed all the old letters; but I believe this is in the same hand, only the former were written with a very fine pen, and this with a broad-pointed one. I could at any time make as great a difference in my own writing by a change of pens." Barbara made no further remark; and by return of post a letter went to Mrs. Allington, with a promise to receive the child at Monks Lea. CHAPTER III.