He was not mistaken in the sound, and he was about getting up for the third and, as he swore to himself, the last time, when a loud ring of the bell, and a well-known voice, calling: “Father! father! let me in,” told him that not the Maine woman, but his son Richard, had come. Hastening down the stairs, he unlocked the door, and Richard Howell stepped into the hall, his boots bespattered with mud, his clothes wet with the heavy rain, and his face looking haggard and pale by the dim light of the lamp his father carried in his hand. “Why, Dick!” exclaimed the Judge, “what ails you? You are as white as a ghost.” “I am tired and sick,” was Richard’s reply. “I’ve scarcely slept for several weeks.” “Been watching with Hetty, I dare say,” thought the Judge; but he merely said: “Why didn’t you come at seven, as you wrote you would?” “I couldn’t conveniently,” Richard replied: “and, as I was anxious to get here as soon as possible, I took the night express, and have walked from the depot. But what is that?” he continued, as he entered the sitting-room, and saw the willow basket standing near the door. “Dick,” and the Judge’s voice dropped to a nervous whisper,—“Dick, if you’ll believe me, some infernal Maine woman has had a baby, and left it on our steps. She wrote first to know if I’d take it, but the letter was two weeks coming. I didn’t get it until to-night, and, as I suppose she was tired of waiting, she brought it along right in the midst of that thunder-shower. She might have known I’d kick it into the street, just as I said I would,—the trollop!” “Oh, father!” exclaimed the more humane young man, “you surely didn’t treat the innocent child so cruelly!” “No, I didn’t, though my will was good enough,” answered the father. “Just think of the scandalous reports that are certain to follow. It will be just like that gossiping Widow Simms to get up some confounded yarn, and involve us both, the wretch! But I sha’n’t keep it,—I shall send it to the poor-house.” And, by way of adding emphasis to his words, he gave the basket a shove, which turned it bottom side up, and scattered over the floor sundry articles of baby-wear, which had before escaped his observation. Among these was a tiny pair of red morocco shoes; for the “Maine woman,” as he called her, had been thoughtful both for the present and future wants of her child. “Look, father,” said Richard, taking them up and holding them to the light. “They are just like those sister Mildred used to wear. You know mother saved them, because they were the first; and you have them still in your private drawer.” Richard had touched a tender chord, and it vibrated at once, bringing to his father memories of a little soft, fat foot, which had once been encased in a slipper much like the one Richard held in his hand. The patter of that foot had ceased forever, and the soiled, worn shoe was now a sacred thing, even though the owner had grown up to beautiful womanhood ere her home was made desolate.