"Till Walter comes to share it, I suppose?" said Ada archly.
"Partly, but not wholly, Ada. I do not think it would be right to take more children than I could provide for out of my own funds, if circumstances did not permit of my taking care of them myself."
"I see," said Ada.
"But, however," continued Christina, "I have found a fourth child, and I am to fetch him this afternoon."
"Are you? Oh, do tell me."
"It is a very sad case, Ada; a drunken mother. I was travelling home from a short visit to some relations in the North last week, as you know, and when the bustle of settling ourselves in our carriage was over, and everyone subsided into quiescence, I looked round me, as I generally do, trying to fancy what homes my fellow-travellers come from, and where they are going to."
"Do you?" said Ada. "How funny."
"At the other end of the carriage was a man in shabby-genteel clothes, holding on his knee a baby of about eighteen months old. Oh, his face, Ada! I said to myself—for I saw he was alone, and the child had been dressed by no careful, loving hands—I said to myself, 'You have lost your wife, and are obliged to take your baby somewhere to be looked after.' The child sat very still; it seemed as if want of love and cherishing had pressed the life out of its little nature, and my heart ached for it."
"What a loving heart you have," said Ada, as she gazed at the beautiful face, with its eyes full of tears.
"By-and-by, the man began talking to the person next him, and I caught the words, 'It's the last of eight. I'm taking him away from his mother; she is no mother to him, and I can bear it no longer.'