Upton Manor, near Liddlefield, Yorkshire. November 15th, 18----. The doctor handed the note to the lady, who read it through quickly. “That does not give much information,” he observed, rising from his knees. “Dated yesterday--received this morning. We must telegraph to this Mrs. Huntley; who knows?--the poor creature may have sent her references, with her full name, before starting from London.” “Yes, you are right; we must do that. But what is to become of the child? Are you staying here for long, madam?” “No,” replied the lady; “I had intended to travel straight on to the North. But I shall remain in Chesterham for the night, and continue my journey to-morrow. I wish I could delay it longer; but, unfortunately, my son is ill in Edinburgh, and I must get to him as soon as possible. However, I will take care of this poor little mite to-night. I hope by the morning we shall have discovered her friends and relations.” “If you will do that,” said the doctor, “I will see to the mother. I must have the body carried to the infirmary.” He beckoned, as he spoke, to the porter, who was standing at a little distance, talking to the crowd of natives who had arrived to clear the line, and the dead woman was lifted on to the litter, and covered with a rug belonging to the lady who had taken charge of the child. She watched the proceedings with a feeling of unspeakable sadness, and, as the melancholy burden was carried toward one of the cabs, she clasped the child closer to her breast, and tears stole down her cheeks. The baby, cooing to her strange doll, looked up as they moved across the field. She put up one little hand and rubbed away a tear from the motherly face. “No kye,” she said, in her pretty, lisping fashion. “Mardie dood--she no kye.” The lady kissed the small lips. “Mardie is a sweet angel,” she whispered; “and now she shall come with me to a pretty place and have some nice dinner.” “Din-din,” said the child, nodding her head with its wealth of red-gold curls. “Mardie ’ungry. Mammie a din-din, too?” The lady shivered. “Yes, mammie will go to a pretty place, too,” she answered hurriedly. When they reached the cab, the doctor came up to them. “If you will allow me to suggest, The Plow is the best hotel. I would come with you, but I must drive straight to the infirmary. Give me the child for a moment while you get in. She has lost her hat, poor little thing; but the town is not far off, and the best place for her will be in bed.” Mardie went willingly to the doctor’s arms. She prattled to him about the “din-din” and “mammie,” but much was unintelligible to him. She did not ask for her mother or seem strange. “Mammie a seep,” she asserted several times, in a whisper; and she was content with the two kind beings whose hearts were heavy with pain as they thought of the long, dreary path she must tread henceforth without a touch from the loving hands, or a word from the tender voice she knew so well.