The little thing kept her eyes fixed upon her, with that watchfulness which is the only defence of weakness, ready to fly like a little wild creature at any approach of danger. She opened a little bag which hung by her side and took a letter from it, never taking her great eyes all the time from Miss Musgrave’s face. “This was for you, if you were Mary,” she said; holding the letter jealously in both hands. “But he said, when I spoke to you, if it was you, you would know.” “You strange little girl!” cried Miss Musgrave, stepping out upon the stones and holding out her hands eagerly; but the child made a little move backward at the moment, in desperation of fear, yet courage. “I will not give it you! I will not give it! it is everything we have--unless you are Mary,” she cried, with the burst of a suppressed sob. “Who are you then, child? Yes, I am Mary, Mary Musgrave--give me the letter. Is not this the house you were told of? Give me the letter--the letter!” said Miss Musgrave, once more holding out her hands. And once more the child made her jealous mental comparison between what the lady was, and what she had been told to look for. “I cannot do what I please,” she said, with little quivering lips. “I have Nello to take care of. He is only such a little, little child. Yes, it is the house he told me of; but he said if you were Mary--Ah! he said you would know us and take us into your arms, and be so kind, so kind!” “Little girl,” said Miss Musgrave, the tears dropping from her cheeks. “There is only one man’s child that you can be. You are John’s little girl, my brother John, and I am his sister Mary. But I do not know your name, nor any thing about you. Give me John’s letter--and come to me, come to me, my child!”