“But wait--wait till I am gone!” she moaned. “She is my all, my all! Oh, ’tis hard to die and leave her! My baby, my baby, your mother’s heart will break!” and the tears fell like rain on the wondering little face upturned to hers. “Don’t ky, Ethel’s mamma! Ethel love ’oo!” cooed the babe, lifting her dress to wipe away the tears, while with the other arm she clung about her neck, then kissing her wet cheek again and again. Mrs. Kemper, with great tears of sympathy rolling down her own cheeks, knelt at the wanderer’s side, and, taking one thin hand in hers, said: “I feel for you, my poor, poor friend! I do indeed. I know a mother’s heart, for I once had a little one like this, and when death snatched her from me I would gladly have gone down into the grave with her, for she was my only one. That was ten years ago. I have never had another, and it is not likely I ever shall; and now when you feel that you must leave this darling, will you not let me have her to fill the vacant place in my heart--in _our_ hearts and home, for my husband will love her dearly too, and be a good father to her?” “Oh, gladly, when--when I am gone!” “But we cannot wait; we must go on our journey in another hour. And it will be to you only parting a little sooner; for her good too. You cannot be selfish where your dear child is concerned.” “No, no, God knows I would suffer anything for her. I love her better than my own soul. But I cannot give her up till--I must. Have pity, have pity! she is all I have left--parents, sister, husband, home, all--everything gone but her--my precious, precious baby! Oh, don’t, don’t ask me to let her go from my arms while I live!” she pleaded in heart-broken accents, and with bitter sobs and tears. “We would not if it could be helped,” sobbed Mrs. Kemper, “but it cannot; and for her sake you will give her to us now?” Mr. Kemper joined his arguments and entreaties to those of his wife. They engaged to do all in their power for the well-being and happiness of the little one, treating her in every respect as if she were their own offspring, on the one condition that she should be given up entirely to them, never to be claimed by any one--even a near relative, or the mother herself, should she by any possibility survive. Mr. Kemper had torn a leaf from his note-book, and, with pen and ink furnished by Irene, had drawn up a deed of gift to that effect, which he was urging the mother to sign. “No, no! I can never, _never_ agree to _that_!” she cried in reference to the last stipulation. “Live without my own precious child! never, never!” “A mere form,” he said. “You cannot live many days, my good woman; do you not feel that it is so?” She but clasped her child closer, while her whole frame shook with the violence of her emotion. She seemed almost ready to expire with the mental anguish superadded to her great physical prostration. At length the distant rumble of an approaching train was heard.