hood, as if he took my moral measure after some
inexplicable personal scale of his own; then came directly and put his
hand into my own.

I grasped it heartily,--who could have helped it?--and lifting the
little fellow in my arms kissed him affectionately, as one does a
pretty stranger child. This seemed to gratify him rather than to
satisfy him; he nestled in my neck, but moved restlessly, slipping to
the ground, and back again into my arms; jabbering incoherently and
pleasantly; seeming to be diverted rather than comforted; ready to
stay, but alert to go; in short, behaving like a baby on a visit.
After awhile the child adjusted himself to the situation; grew quiet,
and clung to me; and at last, putting both his arms about my neck, he
gave the long, sweet sigh of healthy infant weariness, and babbling
something to the general effect that Boy was tired, he dropped into a
sound and happy sleep.

Here, indeed, was a situation! It drew from me the first smile which
had crossed my lips since I had died. What, pray, was I, who seemed to
be of no consequence whatever in this amazing country, and who had more
than I knew how to do in looking after myself, under its mysterious
conditions,--what was I to do with the spirit-baby gone to sleep upon
my neck?

"I must go and find the Orphan Asylum," I 'thought; "doubtless they
have them in this extraordinary civilization. I must take the little
fellow to some women as soon as possible." At this juncture, my friend
Mrs. Faith appeared, making a mock of being out of breath, and laughing
heartily.

"He ran away from me," she merrily explained. "I had the care of him,
and he ran on; he came straight to you. I couldn't hold him. What a
comfort he will be to you!... Why, Doctor! Do you mean to say you
don't know who the child _is_?"

"It seems to me," she added, with a mother's sublime superiority, "_I_
should know my own baby! If I were so fortunate as to find one
here!--How much less you know," she proceeded naively, "than I used to
think you did!"

"Did the child _die_?" I asked, trembling so that I had to put the
little fellow down lest he should fall from my startled arms. "Did
something really ail him that night when his mother--that miserable
night?"

"The child died," she answered gravely. "Dear little Boy! Take him up
again, Doctor. Don't you see? He is uneasy unless you hold him fast."

I took Boy up; I held him close; I kissed him, and I clung to him