The frown darkened on the doctor’s brow; there was something more than an ordinary faint here. He raised the woman’s head for another trial, and the mass of red-gold hair, already loosened, fell in glorious waves round the beautiful, pale face, bringing a murmur of admiration from the beholders. The sudden action caused one limp, cold hand to fall against the doctor’s warm one, and at the contact he shuddered. He raised the heavily-fringed eyelids, gave one look, then gently laid the woman’s head down again, and reverently covered her face with his handkerchief. “I can do nothing,” he said, tersely, as if speaking to himself; “she is dead!” The crowd drew back involuntarily; some hid their faces, while others gazed at the slight form in its dark-brown dress as if they doubted the truth of his statement. Suddenly, while the doctor stood thoughtfully drawing on his gloves, one of the porters appeared in the crowd. He held a child in his arms--such a pretty child--with hair that matched the red-gold masses of the lifeless form on the bank, eyes that shone like sapphire stars from beneath her curling lashes, and a skin of cream white, with no warmth of color in the face, save that of the small, red lips. She was dressed in a little gray coat, all covered now with dust; in her tiny hands she clasped a piece of broken woodwork, holding it as though it were a treasure, and she glanced round at the bystanders with an air of childish piquancy and assurance. “Whose child is this?” inquired the porter, looking from one to another. There was a pause; no one spoke; no one owned her. The porter’s honest face grew troubled. “Where does she come from?” asked the doctor, quickly. “We have just picked her from under the roof of a second-class carriage,” the porter explained. “We were turning it over--you see, sir, it fell some distance from the rest of the carriage--and when we lifted it we found this mite a-singing to herself and nursing her dolly, as she calls this piece of wood. It’s by Heaven’s mercy she ain’t been smashed to bits; but she ain’t got not even a bruise. She must belong to some one,” he added, looking round again. A lady in the crowd here stepped forward. “Give her to me,” she said, kindly. “Perhaps she was traveling alone; if so, that will be explained, no doubt, by a letter or something.” But the child clung to the porter, her pretty brows puckered, her red lips quivering. “Mammie!” she cried, plaintively. “I wants my mammie!” The doctor turned and looked at the child, and at that instant she suddenly wriggled and twisted herself from the porter’s arms to the ground, and, running to the silent form lying on the bank, crouched down and clutched a bit of the brown dress in her hands. “Mammie,” she said, confidently, looking round with her great, blue eyes on the circle of faces, all of which expressed horror, pity and sadness; “Mardie’s mammie!”