“No: there is no public institution that would so far countenance your conduct as to open its doors to her, and I would not designate it if there were. Such places are for children who have no parents, or for those whose parents are too poor to care for them,” the physician indignantly replied. Then, after a short pause, he continued, with great earnestness: “Let me make one last appeal to you, madame. You have given birth to a lovely little daughter, who bids fair to be a child of whom any parent might well be proud. It would be a continual delight to watch her grow and develop into womanhood, and she would no doubt be of the greatest comfort to you years hence, when you begin to descend the hill of life. Keep your child, Mrs. Marston, do not cast her off upon the doubtful care of strangers, to become you know not what in the future. Love and cherish her, nourish her innocence and purity, and do not, I beseech you, commit the irreparable wrong which you are contemplating.” The woman before him threw out her white jeweled hands in a spasmodic gesture in which impatience, pain, and anger were commingled. “Spare your importunities, Dr. Turner,” she said, coolly, “for I assure you it is only a waste of breath and sentiment on your part.” “Have you no love for your innocent babe?” he demanded, sternly. “I have not dared—I will not allow myself to become attached to her,” was the low, constrained reply. “Have you no pity, then, that you thrust her thus remorselessly from your sheltering care?” “I should become an object far more pitiable if I should keep her with me,” returned the incomprehensible mother. “I cannot understand it. Poor child! poor child!” sighed the sympathetic and perplexed physician. “Doctor,” said his companion, with a sudden start, her face lighting with eagerness, “have you children of your own?” “No, madame. I should consider myself blessed, indeed, if I had,” he sighed. “Then will you adopt my daughter? I can assure you that there is not the slightest taint upon her parentage, and it is only the force of hard, obstinate circumstances that compels me to give her up. Your sympathies seem to have been enlisted for her. I am sure you are a good man, and I know that she would find a kind parent in you.” The man flushed, and tears rose to his eyes at this appeal. “Mrs. Marston,” he said, sadly, “if your child had been born six months earlier, and you had asked me this question at that time, I should have answered you with eagerness in the affirmative; but she who would have given the little one a mother’s care is no longer in my home. She died five months ago this very day, and I have no one else in my family to whom I could commit the babe.” “Then what shall I do?” murmured the woman, with knitted brows and sternly compressed lips. “I can think only of one alternative that I should be willing to suggest,” replied the doctor. “What is that?” she demanded, eagerly.