THE next morning, after the poor young mother's death, a cab stopped at Sunnyside, and the nurse got out with the little babe in her arms.
Ellen opened the door to them, and ushered them into the drawing room, where Christina was sitting, while by her stood Walter, who had but that moment arrived with the message that the babe was on its way, but had not had time to give it.
"Here she is, ma'am," said the motherly nurse, coming forward. And Christina held out her arms, while a sudden qualm came over her as to whether she would be able properly to fulfil her trust.
When the little tender form rested on her knees, and she looked into its white, half-starved face, and thought of all the love that young mother had lavished on it, but that now it could never know such a love again, she bent her head over it, and burst into tears.
"Don't cry, ma'am," said the nurse kindly; "you will be like a mother to it, poor lamb; it will never know the difference, and the poor creature that's gone to glory trusted it to you and her Saviour."
Christina wiped the tears away which had fallen on the baby's face and shawl, and stooped and kissed it tenderly. "Poor wee thing. Oh, Walter, I wish I knew more how to do for it, and comfort it!" she said, while she could not help crying afresh.
"You will soon learn; and I believe will not need much learning either," he said, touched by her tears and her tender face.
Christina turned to the nurse and said, looking up, "You will like some lunch, I am sure, nurse; but let me know when you are ready to go; I have a note to send."
When Walter and she were again alone, Christina once more bent and kissed the little sleeping face.
"Walter," she said, looking up, and speaking earnestly, "I could never part from this little one while God spares her life. She is taken into my heart for once and all; so young, so helpless, left me by her mother, lent to me by God! I can never part with her."