"I said your baby looked like you," repeated the woman.
She wondered why the young girl flushed to the roots of her golden hair.
"We must go now," said Dorothy at length; "and I thank you, madame, for your hospitality."
The woman, with clouded eyes, looked after the slender figure as it disappeared.
"A lovely but very mysterious young woman!" she ejaculated. "I hope everything is all right. She is so very young. It is a great pity for the little child."
Meanwhile, Dorothy struggled on through the dim light of the fast dying night, and soon found herself at the railway station without any seeming volition of her own.
In her pocket was her purse, which the good old doctor in one of his generous moods had filled to overflowing. She had had no occasion to use it until now.
The poor little one had commenced to cry now, and when Dorothy hushed its cries it cuddled up to her with a grateful sob and nestled its head on her arm.
Why shouldn't she keep the baby that fate had sent directly into her arms? she asked herself?
Yes, she would keep it. For was there not a bond of sympathy between this poor little one, whom those who should have loved and cared for had consigned to a watery grave, and herself, who had sought the same watery grave to end her own wretched existence?