the coach by which our little visitor was expected. Mrs. Bretton and I
sat alone in the drawing-room waiting her coming; John Graham Bretton
being absent on a visit to one of his schoolfellows who lived in the
country. My godmother read the evening paper while she waited; I
sewed. It was a wet night; the rain lashed the panes, and the wind
sounded angry and restless.

"Poor child!" said Mrs. Bretton from time to time. "What weather for
her journey! I wish she were safe here."

A little before ten the door-bell announced Warren's return. No sooner
was the door opened than I ran down into the hall; there lay a trunk
and some band-boxes, beside them stood a person like a nurse-girl, and
at the foot of the staircase was Warren with a shawled bundle in his
arms.

"Is that the child?" I asked.

"Yes, miss."

I would have opened the shawl, and tried to get a peep at the face,
but it was hastily turned from me to Warren's shoulder.

"Put me down, please," said a small voice when Warren opened the
drawing-room door, "and take off this shawl," continued the speaker,
extracting with its minute hand the pin, and with a sort of fastidious
haste doffing the clumsy wrapping. The creature which now appeared
made a deft attempt to fold the shawl; but the drapery was much too
heavy and large to be sustained or wielded by those hands and arms.
"Give it to Harriet, please," was then the direction, "and she can put