would be taken
from her, and she should see it no more!

An impulse, for which she could hardly account, and for which she was
hardly responsible, seized her. She must have the box that contained the
papers, lest, finding the papers, people should rob her of the child.
Quick as thought, she seized the box--which always stood on a bracket in
the drawing-room--and hid it under her shawl. To the end of her life she
was puzzled as to why she had done this. It would not be missed, she
knew, in the confusion that was likely to ensue. She felt sure, also,
that no one, save herself and the child's father, knew of its contents.

She did not wait long in that scene of confusion and sorrow. Clasping
the child in her arms, lest she should see the dead face, Margaret
Dornham hurried back to the cottage, bearing with her the proofs of the
child's identity.

The doctor was buried, and with him all trace of the child seemed lost.
Careful search was made in his house for any letters that might concern
her, that might give her father's address; but Stephen Letsom had been
faithful to his promise--he had kept the secret. There was nothing that
could give the least clew. There were no letters, no memoranda; and,
after a time, people came to the conclusion that it would be better to
let the child remain where she was, for her father would be sure in time
to hear of the doctor's death and to claim her.

So September came, with its glory of autumn leaves. Just three years had
elapsed since Lady Charlewood had died; and then the great trouble of
her life came to Margaret Dornham.

Chapter V.

On the day after Dr. Letsom's death, Margaret Dornham's husband was
apprehended on a charge of poaching and aiding in a dangerous assault on
Lord Turton's gamekeepers. Bail was refused for him, but at the trial he
was acquitted for want of evidence. Every one knew he was guilty. He
made no great effort to conceal it. But he defied the whole legal power
of England to prove him guilty. He employed clever counsel, and the
result was his acquittal. He was free; but the prison brand was on him,
and his wife felt that she could not endure the disgrace.

"I shall go from bad to worse now, Maggie," he said to her. "I do not
find prison so bad, nor yet difficult to bear; if ever I Bee by any
lucky hit I can make myself a rich man, I shall not mind a few years in
jail as the price. A forgery, or something of that kind, or the robbery
of a well-sto