Awed by the mysteries that encompassed and directed his steps, which used no agency except the unseen, but not unfelt, power which surrounds us with motive as with an atmosphere, Falkner yielded his hitherto unbending mind to control. He was satisfied to be led, and not to command; his impatient spirit wondered at this new docility, while yet he felt some slight self-satisfaction steal over him; and the prospect of being useful to the helpless little being who stood before him, weak in all except her irresistible claim to his aid, imparted such pleasure as he was surprised to feel. Once again he visited the churchyard of Treby, accompanied by the orphan. She was loath to quit the spot--she could with difficulty consent to leave mamma. But Mrs. Baker had made free use of a grown-up person's much abused privilege of deceit, and told her lies in abundance; sometimes promising that she should soon return; sometimes assuring her that she would find her mother alive and well at the grand place whither she was going: yet, despite the fallacious hopes, she cried and sobbed bitterly during her last visits to her parents' graves. Falkner tried to sooth her, saying, "We must leave papa and mamma, dearest; God has taken them from you; but I will be a new papa to you." The child raised her head, which she had buried in his breast, and in infantine dialect and accent said, "Will you be good to her, and love Baby, as papa did?" "Yes, dearest child, I promise always to love you: will you love me, and call me your papa?" "Papa, dear papa," she cried, clinging round his neck--"my new, good papa!" And then, whispering in his ear, she softly, but seriously, added, "I can't have a new mamma--I won't have any but my own mamma." "No, pretty one," said Falkner, with a sigh, "you will never have another mamma; she is gone who would have been a second mother, and you are wholly orphaned."