He now, after walking out of the wood, peeped through the folds of his coat to look again at his charge. He started, turned pale, and trembled to behold what, in the surprise of first seeing the child, had escaped his observation. Around its little throat was a cord entwined by a slipping noose, and drawn half way--as if the trembling hand of the murderer had revolted from its dreadful office, and he or she had heft the infant to pine away in nakedness and hunger, rather than see it die. Again Henry wished himself joy of the treasure he had found; and more fervently than before; for he had not only preserved one fellow-creature from death, but another from murder. Once more he looked at his charge, and was transported to observe, upon its serene brow and sleepy eye, no traces of the dangers it had passed--no trait of shame either for itself or its parents--no discomposure at the unwelcome reception it was likely to encounter from a proud world! He now slipped the fatal string from its neck; and by this affectionate disturbance causing the child to cry, he ran (but he scarcely knew whither) to convey it to a better nurse. He at length found himself at the door of his dear Rebecca--for so very happy Henry felt at the good luck which had befallen him, that he longed to bestow a part of the blessing upon her he loved. He sent for her privately out of the house to speak to him. When she came, "Rebecca," said he (looking around that no one observed him), "Rebecca, I have brought you something you will like." "What is it?" she asked. "You know, Rebecca, that you love deserted birds, strayed kittens, and motherless lambs. I have brought something more pitiable than any of these. Go, get a cap and a little gown, and then I will give it you." "A gown!" exclaimed Rebecca. "If you have brought me a monkey, much as I should esteem any present from _you_, indeed I cannot touch it." "A monkey!" repeated Henry, almost in anger: then changing the tone of his voice, exclaimed in triumph, "It is a child!" On this he gave it a gentle pinch, that its cry might confirm the pleasing truth he spoke. "A child!" repeated Rebecca in amaze. "Yes, and indeed I found it." "Found it!" "Indeed I did. The mother, I fear, had just forsaken it." "Inhuman creature!" "Nay, hold, Rebecca! I am sure you will pity her when you see her child--you then will know she must have loved it--and you will consider how much she certainly had suffered before she left it to perish in a wood." "Cruel!" once more exclaimed Rebecca. "Oh! Rebecca, perhaps, had she possessed a home of her own she would have given it the best place in it; had she possessed money, she would have dressed it with the nicest care; or had she been accustomed to disgrace, she would have gloried in calling it hers! But now, as it is, it is sent to us--to you and me, Rebecca--to take care of."