“Mrs. Harding:  Seven years ago last New Year’s night a child was left on your doorsteps, with a note containing a request that you would care for it kindly as your own.  Money was sent at the same time to defray the expenses of such care.  The writer of this note is the mother of the child, Ida.  There is no need to explain here why I sent away the child from me.  You will easily understand that it was not done willingly, and that only the most imperative necessity would have led me to such a step.  The same necessity still prevents me from reclaiming my child, and I am content still to leave Ida in your charge.  Yet there is one thing I desire.  You will understand a mother’s wish to see, face to face, her own child.  With this view I have come to this neighborhood.  I will not say where I am, for concealment is necessary to me.  I send this note by a trustworthy attendant, Mrs. Hardwick, my little Ida’s nurse in her infancy, who will conduct Ida to me, and return her again to you.  Ida is not to know who she is visiting.  No doubt she believes you to be her mother, and it is well that she should so regard you.  Tell her only that it is a lady, who takes an interest in her, and that will satisfy her childish curiosity.  I make this request as Ida’s mother.”

Mrs. Harding read this letter with mingled feelings.  Pity for the writer; a vague curiosity in regard to the mysterious circumstances which had compelled her to resort to such a step; a half feeling of jealousy, that there should be one who had a claim to her dear, adopted daughter, superior to her own; and a strong feeling of relief at the assurance that Ida was not to be permanently removed—­all these feelings affected the cooper’s wife.

“So you were Ida’s nurse?” she said, gently.

“Yes, ma’am,” said the stranger.  “I hope the dear child is well?”

“Perfectly well.  How much her mother must have suffered from the separation!”

“Indeed you may say so, ma’am.  It came near to breaking her heart.”

“I don’t wonder,” said sympathizing Mrs. Harding.  “I can judge of that by my own feelings.  I don’t know what I should do, if Ida were to be taken from me.”

At this point in the conversation, the cooper entered the house.  He had come home on an errand.

“It is my husband,” said Mrs. Harding, turning to her visitor, by way of explanation.  “Timothy, will you come here a moment?”

The cooper regarded the stranger with some surprise.  His wife hastened to introduce her as Mrs. Hardwick, Ida’s old nurse, and placed in her husband’s hands the letter which we have already read.

He was not a rapid reader, and it took him some time to get through the letter.  He laid it down on his knee, and looked thoughtful.

“This is indeed unexpected,” he said, at last.  “It is a new development in Ida’s history.  May I ask, Mrs. Hardwick, if you have any further proof?  I want to be careful about a child that I love as my own.  Can you furnish any other proof that you are what you represent?”