"But," she said, looking up into his face, "you will not be so naughty again, and sit down where mamma is lying." The stranger promised, and kissed her; and, taking her hand, they walked together to the village; she prattled as she went, and he sometimes listened to her stories of mamma, and answered, and sometimes thought with wonder that he still lived--that the ocean's tide still broke at his feet--and the stars still shone above; he felt angry and impatient at the delay, as if it betokened a failing of purpose. They walked along the sands, and stopped at last at Mrs. Baker's door. She was standing at it, and exclaimed, "Here you are, Missy, at last! What have you been doing with yourself? I declare I was quite frightened--it is long past your bedtime." "You must not scold her," said the stranger; "I detained her. But why do you let her go out alone? it is not right." "Lord, sir," she replied, "there is none hereabouts to do her a harm--and she would not thank me if I kept her from going to see her mamma, as she calls it. I have no one to spare to go with her; it's hard enough on me to keep her on charity, as I do. But"--and her voice changed as a thought flashed across her--"I beg your pardon, sir, perhaps you come for Missy, and know all about her. I am sure I have done all I can; it's a long time since her mamma died; and, but for me, she must have gone to the parish. I hope you will judge that I have done my duty towards her." "You mistake," said the stranger; "I know nothing of this young lady, nor of her parents, who, it would seem, are both dead. Of course she has other relations?" "That she has, and rich ones too," replied Mrs. Baker, "if one could but find them out. It's hard upon me, who am a widow woman, with four children of my own, to have other people's upon me--very hard, sir, as you must allow; and often I think that I cannot answer it to myself, taking the bread from my own children and grandchildren, to feed a stranger. But, to be sure, Missy has rich relations, and some day they will inquire for her; though come the tenth of next August, and it's a year since her mother died, and no one has come to ask good or bad about her, or Missy." "Her father died also in this village?" asked the stranger. "True enough," said the woman; "both father and mother died in this very house, and lie up in the churchyard yonder. Come, Missy, don't cry; that's an old story now, and it's no use fretting." The poor child, who had hitherto listened in simple ignorance, began to sob at this mention of her parents; and the stranger, shocked by the woman's unfeeling tone, said, "I should like to hear more of this sad story. Pray let the poor dear child be put to bed, and then, if you will relate what you know of her parents, I dare say I can give you some advice to enable you to discover her relations, and relieve you from the burden of her maintenance."