But Mrs Jarker could not answer for something swelling in her throat; and the next minute she too was weeping, with her hand resting upon her visitor's shoulder. This paroxysm of tears seemed to have its effect upon the visitor, for, forcing back her own emotion, she appeared more at ease within herself, as, gazing once more into the pale, worn, common face of the birdcatcher's wife, she kissed her in so loving and sisterly a way, that the tears flowed faster from Mrs Jarker's eyes. And yet, knowing full well who was her visitor, Mrs Jarker did not shudder, but rose from her choir, glanced timorously at the open trap, and then drew the stranger towards a box--a common deal-box, with the blue-stained paper that had once covered it hanging here and there in rags. She went upon her knees now, and raised the creaking lid, when an impatient movement of the feet upon the ladder made her start up hastily, and close the lid again. But a long, loud whistling from above showed her that Mr Jarker was still busy with his birds; so once more raising the lid, the poor creature thrust her hand down to a well-known spot beneath the few rags of clothes the box contained, and brought out a pair of little, stained red boots, which she pressed passionately to her lips, the tears gushing from her eyes the while, and a broken hysterical wail burst from her overladen breast. But it was checked instantly, for Jarker's feet scraped on the ladder, and the boots were hidden beneath the woman's apron; then the whistling was heard again, and the little boots were brought forth once more. A pair of tiny red boots, the only relic she had of something that was not--something that she had once warmed within her breast--the breast before now bruised and blackened by a ruffian hand, but beneath which was the same warm, God-implanted love for her offspring that glows in the bosom of the noblest of her sex. For a moment or two the younger woman gazed in the other's eyes with a soft, tender, pitying look--a look in this case of true sympathy; and the hand of the lost rested lovingly upon Mrs Jarker's breast as she whispered softly: "How old was it?" "Only a twelvemonth," was the reply, followed by a moan. "But perhaps it was best--perhaps it was best." The visitor's hand still rested upon the other's breast, and she was about to speak, when an impatient shuffle startled both, for it seemed that Mr Jarker was about to descend; but he came not. And now a look of ineffable sweetness and content came over the well-moulded features of the visitor. She was satisfied now respecting the step she was about to take; for Mrs Jarker's heart had been laid open to her. A true chord of sympathy existed between them, and she could feel that her little one would be taken to a motherly breast, and protected-- protected; but who, she asked herself, would injure one so tender and frail?