For several minutes their coaxing tenderness was in vain; but after a while the maid succeeded in attracting her attention with a gaudily-painted sugar parrot, which she had purchased at a confectioner’s shop near by. The tears were all spent, nothing but sobs remained, and the parrot came as a welcome bright spot in her small world of grief. “Pitty--pitty,” she murmured, clasping it to her breast and hugging it. Then she grew so sleepy that she was scarcely conscious of their hands removing her clothes, and her head drooped like a tired flower as they put on a nightgown borrowed from the landlady. She needed no lullaby to coax her to slumber now, and was lost in dreamland as the maid carried her gently into the bedroom. Lady Coningham stood and gazed, as if held by some magnetic power, at the tiny face pressing the pillow, at the clusters of red-gold curls falling in such rich profusion around it. She was lost in the memory of the brief joy that had come to her only two short years before, and lived once again in the unspeakable happiness of motherhood. The sound of a deep voice broke her musings, and, stealing softly from the bed, she entered the sitting-room and gave her hand to Dr. Scott. “What news?” she asked, hurriedly. Dr. Scott handed her a telegram, then seated himself by the table, leaning his head on his hand. Lady Coningham hastily read the words: From Mrs. Huntley, Upton Manor, Liddlefield, to Dr. Scott, Chesterham:--Am distressed to hear of accident and the poor woman’s death. I can give you no information, as I have received no reply to my last letter to “M.” Pray let me know if I can be of any pecuniary assistance. Lady Coningham put down the paper quietly. “What is to be done now?” she asked. “I have telegraphed to Newtown,” replied Dr. Scott, looking up, “to the post office there, but, as yet, have received no reply. They may know something, but I can not help thinking the poor creature had some reason for secrecy, and I am doubtful as to success.” Mrs. Graham was reclining wearily in an armchair by the fire. She spoke now as the doctor finished. “I wish from my heart I could take the child, but it is out of the question, at any rate just now. My son is studying at Edinburgh University; he unfortunately caught a severe cold, and is now prostrate with rheumatic fever. My every moment will be with him; but, if you will place the poor mite with some kind people for a time, Lady Coningham, I will add my share to the expense, though frankly I am not by any means wealthy.” “I know of a person,” began the doctor; but Lady Coningham broke in eagerly: “I will take her to Hurstley. There is a poor young woman, the wife of one of my gardeners, almost heart-broken through the death of her baby. Her cottage is not far from the Weald. I pass it every day in my rides, and I could see the child very often. Let her come there to-morrow before you start. I will see Mrs. Morris to-night as I go home.”