s
safely established, and by then every clue seemed to have been lost.
The consul did his best, and made the case widely known among the
European residents in China, but many families had perished in the
uprising, and no one could tell by which of them the child might have
been claimed.

The little waif stayed on therefore at the Ingledew hospital, where
she grew apace, and was soon the pet and darling of everybody who knew
her. It was decided to call her "Mercy", in memory of the last words
of the woman who had saved her life, and "Ingledew" was added as a
surname for lack of any other.

It was when she was about seven years old that the doctor and his
wife, who were returning to England for a year's leave, determined to
take her with them and to try to make some arrangements for her
education. A philanthropic lady, who happened to join the ship at
Ceylon, heard the strange story, and, taking a fancy to the child,
offered to send her to school; so it was in this way that Mercy had
come to Miss Kaye's, where she had remained ever since.

Last year, however, a great misfortune had occurred. Her kind
guardian, who had always taken the warmest interest in her welfare,
had died suddenly without making a will; her heirs did not feel
themselves bound to continue Mercy's school fees; and again she was
left utterly unprovided for. Here Miss Kaye had come to the rescue,
and had promised to keep her at Heathercliffe House until she should
be old enough to earn her own living as a teacher, and Mercy repaid
the kindness bestowed upon her by working her very best and trying to
fit herself for the career which she was to follow by and by. Nine
years at Aberglyn had blurred her memories of her early life in China,
but she still wrote to her friends at the Mission, and said she never
forgot that one spot, though other scenes might have faded from her
remembrance.

Though Sylvia only heard this account of Mercy's childhood at
secondhand, told mostly in whispers by Linda when they were in bed, it
appealed immensely to the poetical side of her nature, and invested
her schoolfellow with a halo of romance that added greatly to her
other charms.

"Suppose she really has a father or a mother," said Sylvia, who loved
to let her imagination run riot; "or if they are both dead, perhaps a
grandfather, or a grandmother, or an uncle who is searching for her
everywhere. She might be the heiress to a big property, and own
castles and halls an