ad and a night's
lodging, and, if sometimes she failed, she could bear hunger, and was
not afraid of creeping into some shed, or, when by the sea-shore, even
into some sheltering cavern. Her child throve too--for God tempers the
wind to the shorn lamb! But now, so far as physical privation went, the
worst was over.

It so happened that as Alice was drawing herself wearily along to the
entrance of the village which was to bound her day's journey, she was
met by a lady, past middle age, in whose countenance compassion was so
visible, that Alice would not beg, for she had a strange delicacy or
pride, or whatever it may be called, and rather begged of the stern than
of those who looked kindly at her--she did not like to lower herself in
the eyes of the last.

The lady stopped.

"My poor girl, where are you going?"

"Where God pleases, madam," said Alice.

"Humph! and is that your own child?--you are almost a child yourself."

"It is mine, madam," said Alice, gazing fondly at the infant; "it is my
all!"

The lady's voice faltered. "Are you married?" she asked.

"Married!--Oh, no, madam!" replied Alice, innocently, yet without
blushing, for she never knew that she had done wrong in loving
Maltravers.

The lady drew gently back, but not in horror--no, in still deeper
compassion; for that lady had virtue, and she knew that the faults of
her sex are sufficiently punished to permit Virtue to pity them without
a sin.

"I am sorry for it," she said, however, with greater gravity. "Are you
travelling to seek the father?"

"Ah, madam! I shall never see him again!" And Alice wept.

"What!--he has abandoned you--so young, so beautiful!" added the lady to
herself.

"Abandoned me!--no, madam; but it is a long tale. Good evening--I thank
you kindly for your pity."

The lady's eyes ran over.

"Stay," said she; "tell me frankly where you are going, and what is your
object."

"Alas! madam, I am going anywhere, for I have no home; but I wish to
live, and work for my living, in order that my child may not want for
anything. I wish I could maintain myself--he used to say I could."

"He!--your language and manner are not those of a peasant. What can you
do? What do you know?"

"Music, and work, and--and--"

"Music!--this is strange! What were your parents?"

Alice shuddered, and hid her face with her hands.

The lady's interest was now fairly warmed in her behalf.

"She has sinned," said she to herself; "but at tha