"I must go and find the Orphan Asylum," I 'thought; "doubtless they have them in this extraordinary civilization. I must take the little fellow to some women as soon as possible." At this juncture, my friend Mrs. Faith appeared, making a mock of being out of breath, and laughing heartily.
"He ran away from me," she merrily explained. "I had the care of him, and he ran on; he came straight to you. I couldn't hold him. What a comfort he will be to you!... Why, Doctor! Do you mean to say you don't know who the child is?"
"It seems to me," she added, with a mother's sublime superiority, "I should know my own baby! If I were so fortunate as to find one here!—How much less you know," she proceeded naively, "than I used to think you did!"
"Did the child die?" I asked, trembling so that I had to put the little fellow down lest he should fall from my startled arms. "Did something really ail him that night when his mother—that miserable night?"
"The child died," she answered gravely. "Dear little Boy! Take him up again, Doctor. Don't you see? He is uneasy unless you hold him fast."
I took Boy up; I held him close; I kissed him, and I clung to him, and melted into unintelligible cries above him, never minding Mrs. Faith, for I quite forgot her.
But what I felt was for my child's poor mother, and all my thought was for her, and my heart broke for her, that she should be so bereft.
"I should like to know if you suppose for one minute that she wouldn't rather you would have the little fellow, if he is the least bit of comfort to you in the world?"
Mrs. Faith said this; she spoke with a kind of lofty, feminine scorn.
"Why, Helen loves you!" she said, superbly.