"And what is she doing here?" questioned the woman, still in her stern, low tones.
"Mrs. Farnham has adopted her," answered the child, "and no wonder; anybody would like to have Isabel for a child."
"Why?"
"Because she is lovely."
"Why didn't she adopt you?" said the woman, without a change in her voice.
"Me, ma'am! Oh, how could she?"
The child, as she spoke, spread her little hands abroad, and looked downward as was her touching habit, when her person was brought in question.
The woman stood in the centre of the room, pale, and still gazing upon that singular little face, with a degree of intensity of which its former coldness seemed incapable. At last she strode up to the window, and putting her hand on Mary's forehead, bent back her head, while she perused her face.
"And who will adopt you?" she said, at length, as if communing with herself.
"I don't know," said the child, sadly. "When I came here I thought perhaps this house was the one that Mr. Sharp expected me to live in."