of a puddle of water Mother Maggie was leaning over the new comer and
trying to untie the numerous knots in a shawl which had kept the child
in her wicker nest. Little Mike was staring open-eyed at the beads round
baby's neck, and at the coral horseshoe which hung from them. The pretty
little girl seemed quite contented, and with the happy unconsciousness
of infancy was evidently quite at home.

"Poor baby, where did she come from?" said Mother Maggie. "Won't her
mother cry her eyes out when she can't see her? We must advertise her in
one of those big city papers."

"I found her," said Connor, "she's mine."

"Why, my boy," said his mother, "she's not a squirrel--you can't keep
her as you did the bunny you found in the hickory tree, and not ask any
questions!"


[Illustration]


"I wish there were no newspapers, and that people couldn't read
besides," wrathfully exclaimed Connor.

"Maybe," he added, with hopeful cheerfulness, "both her father and
mother are drowned. May I keep her then? She may have half of my bread
and milk."

Babies were no great rarity in Twinrip, but never was there such a
happy, bright-eyed little maiden as this waif proved to be. Among the