She put around the forlorn figure a thick cloak, rusty and obsolete in fashion, but which was a warm and ample covering for the child, extending to the hem of her dress. The damp elf-locks were hidden by a knitted hood, and for the feet there were stockings and shoes and a pair of India-rubbers to protect these last from the water. "Now," said the Humane Society of One, when the refitting was at an end, "where do you live? Never mind--I don't care to know that yet! Here is a small umbrella--a good one--which belongs to me. I have no other for myself when I go out in bad weather. I mean to lend it to you, to-day, upon the condition that you will bring it back to-morrow, or the first clear day. Will you do it?" The promise was readily given. "Here's an old thing, Miss Sarah," ventured the butler, respectfully, producing a bulky, ragged cotton umbrella from a corner of the kitchen closet. "It's risky--trusting such as that with your nice silk one." "That will let in the rain, and it is entirely too large for her to carry. You understand, child? You are to bring this safely back to me, the first time the sun shines. Can you find your way to this house again?" "Oh, yes, ma'am, easy. Thank you, ma'am!" She dropped an awkward curtsey as Miss Sarah held open the door for her to pass, and went out into the rain--warm, dry and shielded against further damage from the storm. Unheeding the significant looks of the culinary cabinet, Sarah Hunt turned away and ascended the stairs. She was a striking-looking girl, although her features, when in repose, could claim neither beauty of form nor expression. Her complexion was dark and pale, with a slight tinge of olive, and her hair a deep brown, lips whose compression was habitual, an aquiline nose, and eyes that changed from dreamy hazel to midnight blackness at the call of mind or feeling, gave marked character to her countenance. Her sententious style of address to the child she had just dismissed was natural, and usual to her in ordinary conversation, as was also the gravity, verging upon sombreness, which had not once during the interview relaxed into a smile. The family sitting-room, her destination at present, and to which we will take the liberty of preceding her, was furnished elegantly and substantially, and there, leaning back in lounging chairs, were Miss Lucy Hunt, the eldest daughter of the household, and her bosom friend, Miss Victoria West. Each held and wielded a crochet needle, and had upon her lap a basket of many-hued balls of double or single zephyr worsted, or Shetland or Saxony wool, or whatever was the fashionable article for such pretty trifling at that date. Miss West had completed one-quarter of a shawl for herself, white and scarlet, and her friend had made precisely the same progress in the arduous manufacture of one whose centre was white and its border blue.