"Lucy. Something in the mother's face put me in mind of my sister, and it was the name I first thought of. I asked the mother what she would have it called. Anything, she answered; it did not matter. Neither did it, for the little thing was dying then. Hot-water bottles and other remedies were tried last night as soon as they could be had, to get warmth into the child--to renew its life, in fact; but nothing availed." "Where was the woman taken to?" "To Jael Batty's. Jael consented to take her in." "I suppose it is but another case of the old, sad story?" groaned Mrs. Todhetley. "Nothing else. And she, poor thing, is not much more than a girl." "Now, Charles, I tell you what. It may be all very consistent for you clergymen--men of forgiveness, and that--to waste your compassion over these poor stray creatures, but I think it might do more good sometimes if you gave them blame," spoke Mrs. Coney, severely. "There are times and seasons when you cannot express blame, however much it may be deserved," he answered. "The worst of it in these cases is, that we rarely know there exists cause for censure before it is too late for any censure to avail, or avert the evil." What with the astounding events of the day, connected with the interrupted wedding, nothing more was said or thought of the affair. Except by Jane. When she and I were in the big dining-room together--I trying to blow up the fire, and she in full dread that Robert Ashton would have to be tried for his life at the Worcester Spring Assizes, and lie in prison until then--she suddenly spoke of it, interrupting the noise made by the crackling of the wood. "So that poor baby's dead, Johnny! What a happy fate--not to grow up to trouble. Charles named it Lucy, I hear. I should like to see the poor mother." "See her for what, Jane?" "She is in distress, and so am I. I don't suppose she has a corner to turn to for comfort in the wide world. I have not." It was not so very long after this that _her_ distress was over. Robert Ashton arrived in triumph, and so put an end to it. One might suppose Jane would no longer have remembered that other one's distress; what with the impromptu dinner, where we had no room for our elbows, and the laughter, and the preparations for the next day's wedding. But the matter had taken hold of Jane Coney's mind, and she reverted to it on the morrow before going away. When the wedding-breakfast was over, and she--nevermore Jane Coney, but Jane Ashton--had changed her dress and was saying good-bye to her mother upstairs, she suddenly spoke of it. "Mamma, I want to ask you to do something for me." "Well, my dear?" "Will you see after that poor young woman who was found in the shed?" Naturally Mrs. Coney was taken by surprise. She didn't much like it. "After that young woman, Jane?" "Yes; for me." "Mrs. Broom has seen to her," returned Mrs. Coney, in a voice that sounded very frozen.