"Well, well! here's a pretty howdy-do!" exclaimed the tall, angular woman. "Here, John!" she called to the footman, who was just shutting the door of the vehicle, "pick up this poor creature, and carry her into the house. It appears I have knocked her down. I hope no bones are broken."
The house into which Ida May was carried was a very small cottage, occupied by a poor laborer and his wife, who were the parents of a little one who was ill but was slowly convalescing.
The wealthy spinster and her maid often called to bring some fruit or medicine to the child.
Miss Fernly was not fair to look upon, but she had a heart of gold. She was quite eccentric; but her purse was always open to the wants of the needy.
"Leave the room instantly," she said to her maid. "Run out and tell the coachman to go for the nearest doctor, and to fetch him back with him at once!"
It seemed an age until the doctor arrived. Everything in human power was done to render the sufferer comfortable.
It was early morn when the doctor departed—and there had come into this great world of sorrow a dark-eyed little stranger—a tiny little one, with a lovely face like its mother's.
"Will it live?" cried the young mother, as she listened breathlessly to its faint little wails.
"I am afraid not," replied the doctor pityingly. "We can only hope."
"Oh, if it would only die—only die!" sobbed the girl's mother. "The world is so cold and so dark!"