hought perhaps it was some one who did not know the
house was let, and had walked in to look at it; but nobody would go on
coming like that with all the signs of a large family in the house. And
now the doctor says the child must be low, that the place perhaps doesn't
agree with her, and that we must send her away. Now I ask you, how could
I send little Connie away, the apple of her father's eye? I should have
to go with her, of course, and how could the house get on without me?
Naturally we are very anxious. And this afternoon she has seen her again,
and sits there crying because she says the dear old lady looks so sad. I
just seized my hat, and walked out, to come to you and your friends at
the vicarage, to see if you could help me. Mrs. Bowyer may look down upon
a city person,--I don't mind that; but she is a mother, and surely she
would feel for a mother," cried the poor lady vehemently, putting up her
hands to her wet eyes.

"Oh, indeed, indeed she would! I am sure now that she will call
directly. We did not know what a--" Mary stopped herself in saying,
"what a nice woman you are," which she thought would be rude, though poor
Mrs. Turner would have liked it. But then she shook her head and added,
"What could any of us do to help you? I have never heard of any old lady.
There never was anything--I know all about the house, everything that has
ever happened, and Prentiss will tell you. There is nothing of that
kind,--indeed, there is nothing. You must have--" But here Mary stopped
again; for to suggest that a new family, a city family, should have
brought an apparition of their own with them, was too ridiculous an idea
to be entertained.

"Miss Vivian," said Mrs. Turner, "will you come back with me and speak to
the child?"

At this Mary faltered a little. "I have never been there--since
the--funeral," she said.

The good woman laid a kind hand upon her shoulder, caressing and
soothing. "You were very fond of her--in spite of the way she has used
you?"

"Oh, how dare you, or any one, to speak of her so! She used me as if I
had been her dearest child. She was more kind to me than a mother. There
is no one in the world like her!" Mary cried.

"And yet she left you without a penny. Oh, you must be a good girl to
feel for her like that. She left you without--What are you going to do,
my dear? I feel like a friend. I feel like a mother to you, though you
don't know me. You mustn't think it is only curiosity. You ca