“I don’t want to. I’ll wait here for mother,” replied the girl, shrinking back into her corner, against the rough stone wall.
“My child,” said Mr. Morris, “I fear your mother has left you here on purpose, and that she will never come back. If she is in the place, you shall go to her as soon as we can find her. If you stay here you will freeze. Come with us and we will give you a supper, and let you warm yourself before a rousing fire, while we search for your mother.”
The idea of supper and a rousing fire took hold of the little outcast’s feelings. Gathering her rags close to her chilled body she stepped forward, and said—
“I’ll go with you.”
“What is your name?” inquired Jessie.
“Madge!” said the child, curtly.
“Madge what?” asked Uncle Morris.
“Madge Clifton!” said the child.
“Which means, I suppose, Margaret Clifton,” said the old gentleman. “A pretty name enough, and I wish its owner was in a prettier condition. But come, let us hasten out of this cold biting wind.”
Poor little, shivering Madge! Waiting so long for her mother, alone and in a strange place, had made her heart heavy and sad. Her limbs were so stiff with cold she could scarcely walk, at first. But the kind looks of the good old gentleman, and the loving words of Jessie, cheered her on; and in a few minutes they entered the back door of Glen Morris Cottage.