Twilight was fast deepening into night; the way grew dark and slippery; now her feet sank in the mud, and she struggled out only to slip into a pool of water, or to stumble and fall over a stump or log, or to catch and tear her clothing on some thorny bush. The pauses for breath grew more frequent, the steps, as she moved forward again, weaker and more tottering, the weary arms could scarce sustain the weight of the child, and she knew not how far distant was the nearest human habitation. She was about to give up in utter despair, when the gleam of a not very distant light seen through the trees inspired her with new hope and energy. She pressed forward, and presently emerged from the wood and found herself at Clearfield Station, with the light in the window of the shanty inn shining out ruddily not a hundred yards away. She crept to the door and knocked faintly. Mr. Kemper, who had just finished his supper, rose and opened it. “Come in,” he said. “This is a public house, and I presume no one will object,” he added, catching sight of the ragged, dripping figure. She stepped in, staggered to the fire and dropped down on the floor beside it. “Drunk!” he muttered, with a gesture of disgust. “No, no, John! she is ill--starving perhaps!--poor thing! poor thing!” cried his keener-sighted wife, springing forward, barely in time to catch the sleeping babe as the weary arms relaxed their hold and the wanderer sank back against the wall in a state of semi-insensibility, her eyes closed and not a trace of color on cheek or lip. “She’s dying!” exclaimed Mr. Kemper in a frightened whisper; and rushing to the inner door, “Somebody run for a doctor, quick! here is a woman who seems to be very ill!” he cried hurriedly. “None to be had within three or four mile,” returned a gruff voice from the table. “What ails the woman? and who is she?” “I don’t know; but something must be done.” “Give her a cup of your tea, Irene,” said the voice. “A few drops of brandy from the flask in our luncheon-basket, John,” said his wife. “I always take it along in case of sickness, you know.” But the child, a girl of eighteen months, woke with a cry, “Mamma! mamma!” and at the sound the mother’s eyes unclosed. “Give her to me--my little Ethel!” she said faintly. “You are ill, my good woman, not able to hold her,” Mrs. Kemper said, as she reluctantly complied with the request. “Yes, and I--have eaten nothing to-day--and have walked many miles.” “Poor soul!” exclaimed Irene, the kind-hearted mistress of the shanty, coming in with the tea. “Here, drink this, and I’ll bring you some supper. You look more dead than alive, and the rain has soaked you through and through. Dear, dear! you’ll catch your death o’ cold!” She raised the wanderer’s head as she spoke, and held the cup to her lips. It was eagerly drained to the last drop, and seemed to revive the poor creature greatly.