hich the good old doctor in one of his
generous moods had filled to overflowing. She had had no occasion to use
it until now.

The poor little one had commenced to cry now, and when Dorothy hushed
its cries it cuddled up to her with a grateful sob and nestled its head
on her arm.

Why shouldn't she keep the baby that fate had sent directly into her
arms? she asked herself?

Yes, she would keep it. For was there not a bond of sympathy between
this poor little one, whom those who should have loved and cared for had
consigned to a watery grave, and herself, who had sought the same
watery grave to end her own wretched existence?

"You and I will live for each other, baby," she sobbed, holding the wee
mite closer. "I will keep you for my very own, and I will pray for the
time to come when you will be big enough for me to tell you all my
sorrows. You will put your little arms around my neck and your soft,
warm cheek against mine, and try to comfort me."

Dorothy had made her resolve, little dreaming that it would end in a
tragedy.

She boarded the train, and was soon steaming away toward New York
city--the great, cruel city of New York, rampant with wickedness and
crime.

More than one passenger noticed the lovely young girl with the tiny
infant in her arms, and marveled as to whether or not it could possibly
belong to her; for surely the girl could not be a day over sixteen, or
seventeen, at most.

All unconscious of this close scrutiny, Dorothy watched the little one
with wondering eyes all the way until she reached the metropolis.

Her first idea was to seek a boarding place, and then she could look
about her.

To her dismay, among the half score to which she walked until she could
almost drop down from exhaustion, no one cared to take her and the child
in; and it seemed to her, too, that they were rude in refusing her, and
more than one actually shut the door in her face.

She was tired--so tired--carrying the heavy child in her arms. She had
given the name Miss Brown to each instance, and at last one landlady
came out bluntly and said to her:

"It would sound a deal more proper to call yourself Mrs. Brown, if you
please, ma'am," at the same time pointing to the child in her arms.

Then it dawned upon Dorothy's mind why every one had refused them
shelter, even for money.

"Why shouldn't I call myself Mrs. instead of Miss Brown? One name is as
good as another," she said to herself. It was all the same to