"Certainly it wouldn't do. But mightn't Miss—I forget her name—"
"Miss Burton, I dare say you mean."
"I mean Miss Burton. Couldn't she help you? Is she any relation of yours?"
"None whatever. Nor she's not like it. I believe she's a stray, myself."
"What do you mean, Mr. Kitely?" asked Mr. Fuller, quite bewildered now.
"Well, sir, I mean that she's a stray angel," answered Mr. Kitely, smiling; "for she ain't like anyone else I know of but that child's mother, and she's gone back to where she came from—many's the long year."
"I don't wonder at your thinking that of her if she's as good as she looks," returned Mr. Fuller. And bidding the bookseller good-morning, he left the shop and walked home, cogitating how the child could be got into the country.
Next morning he called—earlier, and saw Lucy leaving the court just as he was going into the shop. He turned and spoke to her.
"Fancy a child, Miss Burton," he said, "that does not care about flowers—and her heart full of religion too! How is she to consider the lilies of the field? She knows only birds in cages; she has no idea of the birds of the air. The poor child has to lift everything out of that deep soul of hers, and the buckets of her brain can't stand such hard work."
"I know, I know," answered Lucy. "But what can I do?"