Wilford did not mean to be either a savage or a brute. On the contrary, he had made himself believe that he was acting only for the good of both mother and child; but the sight of Katy touched him, and he might have given up the contest had not Helen, unfortunately, taken up the cudgels in Katy’s defence, neglecting to conceal the weapons, and so defeating her purpose. It was at the dinner, from which Katy was absent, that she ventured to speak, not _asking_ that the plan be given up, but speaking of it as an unnatural one, which seemed to her not only useless, but cruel. Wilford did not tell her that her opinion was not desired, but his manner implied as much, and Helen felt the angry blood prickling through her veins, as she listened to his reply, that it was neither unnatural nor cruel; that many people did it, and his would not be an isolated case. “Then, if it must be,” Helen said, “pray let it go to Silverton, and I will be its nurse. Katy will not object to that.” In a very ironical tone Wilford thanked her for her offer, which he begged leave to decline, intimating a preference for settling his own matters according to his own ideas. Helen knew that further argument was useless, and wished herself at home, where there were no _wills_ like this, which, ignoring Katy’s tears and Katy’s pleading face, would not retract one iota, or even stoop to reason with the suffering mother, except to reiterate, “It is only for your good, and every one with common sense will say so.” Next morning Helen was surprised at Katy’s proposition to drive round to Fourth street, and call on Marian. “I have a strong presentiment that she can do me good,” Katy said. “Shall you tell _her_?” Helen asked, in some surprise; and Katy replied, “Perhaps I may, I’ll see.” An hour later, and Katy, up in Marian’s room, sat listening intently, while Marian spoke of a letter received a few days since from an old friend who had worked with her at Madam ——‘s, and to whom she had been strongly attached, keeping up a correspondence with her after her marriage and removal to New London, in Connecticut, and whose little child had borne Marian’s name. That child, born two months before Katy’s, _was dead_, and the mother, finding her home so desolate, had written, beseeching Marian to come to her for the remainder of the winter. There was an eager look in Katy’s face, and her eyes danced with the new idea which had suddenly taken possession of her. She could _not_ trust baby with Kirby up the river, but she could trust her in New London with Mrs. Hubbell, if Marian was there, and grasping the latter’s arm, she exclaimed, “Is Mrs. Hubbell poor? Would she do something for money, a great deal of money, I mean?”