“To get something clean to put on the child. She is clothed in rags foul enough to give her the plague. Burn them, Annie, and clothe her cleanly, though I fear that note is absurdly small for the purpose,” he said, uneasily. “Oh,” said Annie, with a laugh, “this will do quite well. I can get a good calico frock and two changes of underclothing with this. Of course they won’t be very fine, but they will be clean and decent.” She said nothing about shoes, or stockings, or hat, nor did Will Harcourt think of them. But Annie had already planned to supply these necessaries by breaking a five-dollar gold piece, which represented the whole of the poor sewing woman’s savings for the proverbial “rainy day” that the poor and thrifty expect and try to provide for. Annie thought that the “rain” was now falling on the forlorn child, and that the money would, after all, go to its legitimate use. “At the end of the week I shall be able to give more,” added Harcourt. “All right, Mr. William. And now you may bring the little girl in to me, or let me go to her, whichever you please,” said the seamstress, cheerfully. “Then, if you are willing, I will take you in to her. You can make her acquaintance and win her confidence, and then invite her into your room. Would not that be the best way of dealing with this poor baby?” “Of course it would,” Annie answered, with a laugh. “She would be less shy of me if I were to go to her first. And you said you did not know anything about children. Oh, Mr. William! I believe you know all about them. I believe you have been elder brother to a long line of baby girls and boys, and young uncle to a numerous tribe of little nieces and nephews.” “Oh, no, Annie,” said poor Will Harcourt, with a profound sigh, given to the memory of his brave brothers and fair sisters who had left the earth in the early bloom of youth. “But come, now,” he said. “I will take you in to our little waif.” The seamstress arose to accompany him. “I hope,” he said, “that she will not be much trouble to you or hindrance to your work.” “Oh, no,” Annie answered, cheerfully. “I do not think she need be. And, besides, Mr. William, what if she should? I have so very little to trouble me, or to interrupt my work, in comparison to the trials and hindrances of other women in my line of life, that when a real duty comes to me I ought to jump at it, so to speak.” The end of this little speech brought them into Harcourt’s room. They found the child standing at the back window, gazing out over the roofs of houses and stacks of chimneys, to the distant sea. She was, of course, still draped in the dreadful shawl which hung about her as before, like the sooty blanket of some small, old-fashioned chimney sweep. “Oh! what an object! Poor child!” whispered Annie. “And how pretty,” she added, as the child turned around and faced her.