On a bright, sunshiny day in June the doctor walked over to Ashwood.  He had a little packet of fruit and cakes with him, and a wonderful doll, dressed most royally.

“Madaline!” he cried, as he entered the cottage, and she came running to him, “should you like a drive with me to-morrow?” he asked.  “I am going to Corfell, and I will promise to take you if you will be a good girl.”

She promised—­for a drive with the doctor was her greatest earthly delight.

“Bring her to my house about three to-morrow afternoon, Mrs. Dornham,” said Dr. Letsom, “and she shall have her drive.”

Margaret promised.  When the time came she took the little one, dressed in her pretty white frock; and as they sat in the drawing-room, the doctor was brought home to his house—­dead.

It was such a simple yet terrible accident that had killed him.  A poor man had been injured by a kick from a horse.  For want of better accommodation, he had been carried up into a loft over a stable, where the doctor attended him.  In the loft was an open trap-door, through which trusses of hay and straw were raised and lowered.  No one warned Dr. Letsom about it.  The aperture was covered with straw, and he, walking quickly across, fell through.  There was but one comfort—­he did not suffer long.  His death was instantaneous; and on the bright June afternoon when he was to have taken little Madaline for a drive, he was carried home, through the sunlit streets, dead.

Margaret Dornham and the little child sat waiting for him when the sad procession stopped at the door.

“The doctor is dead!” was the cry from one to another.

A terrible pain shot through Margaret’s head.  Dead!  The kindly man, who had been her only friend, dead!  Then perhaps the child would be taken from her, and she should see it no more!

An impulse, for which she could hardly account, and for which she was hardly responsible, seized her.  She must have the box that contained the papers, lest, finding the papers, people should rob her of the child.  Quick as thought, she seized the box—­which always stood on a bracket in the drawing-room—­and hid it under her shawl.  To the end of her life she was puzzled as to why she had done this.  It would not be missed, she knew, in the confusion that was likely to ensue.  She felt sure, also, that no one, save herself and the child’s father, knew of its contents.

She did not wait long in that scene of confusion and sorrow.  Clasping the child in her arms, lest she should see the dead face, Margaret Dornham hurried back to the cottage, bearing with her the proofs of the child’s identity.

The doctor was buried, and with him all trace of the child seemed lost.  Careful search was made in his house for any letters that might concern her, that might give her father’s address; but Stephen Letsom had been faithful to his promise—­he had kept the secret.  There was nothing that could give the least clew.  There were no letters, no memoranda; and, after a time, people came to the conclusion that it would be better to let the child remain where she was, for her father would be sure in time to hear of the doctor’s death and to claim her.