“The post office can give me no clew,” he said. “They recollect the woman ‘M.,’ and describe her accurately; but she received no letters save three addressed to her initial; consequently we are just where we were. Lady Coningham has sent her groom to say that Mrs. Morris will receive the child, so when she is dressed I had better take her over there myself.”
Mrs. Graham assented with a sigh, and then rang for the maid to assist her in preparing Margery for the journey. The little one was very good; she submitted to her bath in brightness, and only now and then would turn her head to look for her mother. Already she seemed to know Mrs. Graham, and raised her lips many times to be kissed, her childish affection sending a pang of pain through the woman’s heart. At last all was ready; the little gray coat well brushed and repaired, was donned, a silk handkerchief tied over the red gold curls, and the beloved parrot clutched in a tight embrace. Mrs. Graham knelt for one brief moment by the small form, and a silent prayer went up to Heaven for mercy and protection; then she led the child to the doctor.
“I will write from Edinburgh,” she said hurriedly; “perhaps, after all, I shall be able to manage something in the future; and here”—handing two sovereigns to the doctor—“is my small share toward present expenses. When will the inquest be?”
“To-day,” returned Dr. Scott, picking Margery up in his arms.
“And she will be buried where?” again asked Mrs. Graham quickly.
“It must be a pauper’s funeral,” he answered, sadly; “any other would cost too much.”
“Can we not get up a subscription? The railway company should give something. It seems so dreadful that she should be buried in a pauper’s grave, with no stone above her.”
“I will do my best to prevent it,” Dr. Scott said, kindly. “Your suggestion about the railway is good, and I will communicate with the directors to-day. Whatever happens in the future, you, madame, have acted nobly, and this child owes you a debt of gratitude.”
“Ah, I wish I could keep her with me always!” Mrs. Graham responded, kissing the little cheek once more. “I must say good-by now. I will write to you in a day or two. Will you let me know if any news reaches you, and where you bury the poor mother?”
“I will,” answered the doctor; then he turned away and carried the child, still happy and unconscious of her terrible loss, down the stairs, to his trap; and, taking the reins, he drove rapidly through the town to the village of Hurstley.