At six-thirty that evening Glory stood waiting in the portico of the hospital, but John Storm did not come. At seven she was ringing at the bell of a little house in St. John's Wood that stood behind a high wall and had an iron grating in the garden door. The bell was answered by a good-natured, slack-looking servant, who was friendly, and even familiar in a moment. “Are you the young lady from the hospital? The missis told me about you. I'm Liza, and come upstairs--Yes, doing nicely, thank you, both of 'em is--and mind your head, miss.” Polly was in a little bandbox of a bedroom, looking more pink and white than ever against the linen of her frilled pillow slips. By the bedside a woman of uncertain age in deep mourning, with little twinkling eyes and fat cheeks, was rocking the baby on her knee and babbling over it in words of maudlin endearment. “Bless it, 'ow it do notice! Boo-loo-loo!” Glory leaned over the little one and pronounced it the prettiest baby she had ever seen. “Syme 'ere miss. There ain't sech another in all London! It's jest the sort of baby you can love. Pore little thing, it's quite took to me already, as if it wanted to enkirridge you, my dear.” “This is Mrs. Jupe,” said Polly, “and she's going to take baby to nurse.” “Boo-loo-loo-boo! And a nice new cradle's awaiting of it afront of the fire in my little back parlour. Boo-loo!” “But surely you're never going to part with your baby!” said Glory. “Why, what do you suppose, dear? Do you think I'm going to be tied to a child all my days, and never be able to go anywhere or do anything or amuse myself at all?” “Jest that. It'll be to our mootual benefit, as I said when I answered your advertisement.” Glory asked the woman if she was married and had any children of her own. “Me, miss? I've been married eleven years, and I've allwiz prayed the dear Lord to gimme childring. Got any? On'y one little girl; but I want to adopt another from the birth, so as to have something to love when my own's growed up.” Glory supposed that Polly could see her baby at any time, but the woman answered doubtfully: “Can she see baby? Well, I would rather not, certingly. If I tyke it I want to feel it is syme as my very own and do my dooty by it, pore thing! And if the mother were coming and going I should allwiz feel as she 'ad the first claim.” Polly showed no interest in the conversation until Mrs. Jupe asked for the name of her “friend,” in lieu of eighty pounds that were to be paid down on delivery of the child. “Come, myke up your mind, my dear, and let me tyke it away at onct. Give me 'is nyme, that's good enough for me.” After some hesitation Glory gave Lord Robert's name and address, and the woman prepared the child for its departure. “Don't tyke on so, my dear. 'Tain't sech a great crime, and many a laidy of serciety 'as done worse.”