[Illustration]

II.

Esther’s perplexity.

The day was gradually fading into darkness.

Esther Fairfax, with sadness upon her usually sunshiny face, was sitting before her cheery open fire, fruitlessly endeavoring to become interested in her newly-purchased book.

Her room was by no means elegantly furnished, but every article it contained, from the rugs upon the floor to the pictures upon the wall, reflected the refinement and culture of the fair young occupant.

Presently, closing her book and tossing it carelessly from her hand, she settled back upon her couch for good solid meditation, while tears gathered in her deep blue eyes, chasing each other in rapid succession down her flushed cheeks.

For some time she lived over the events of the afternoon, recalling minutely the details of the unusual conversation with the untaught but interesting child.

“Oh,” she thought, “I shall never forget those words, ’How much is the fare?  We’re poor you know.’  If only I knew where she lives, that I might go and see her and minister to the comforts of the dying mother!  The hungry wistfulness of those eyes seems burned into my very soul.

“Father, I am so glad you have come,” she said, hastily rising upon hearing the familiar footstep in the hall.  “I have been waiting a long time for your return.”

“Why, my child, you have been crying.  What is it?  Are you ill, or have you received an unwelcome message?”

“No, neither, father, but I am so troubled about a little girl I saw in the car this afternoon, and who disappeared almost magically.”

“Come into my study and tell me all about it, Esther.”

Although Dr. Fairfax was the pastor of one of the largest churches in the city, he always had time for his beloved and motherless daughter.

“When I was coming from down town this afternoon,” she began, “a very small girl with a very large package in her arms stepped aboard the car.  Her face was so sweet and innocent that one would notice it even in a crowd, but overshadowed by an expression of care far too heavy for her baby years.  Her eyes were large, dark and unusually lustrous, while her wavy brown hair fell about her face and neck in rich profusion.  Her clothing was scant and old, but clean and very neatly mended.  The whole appearance of the child was so pathetically irresistible that I went and sat down by her side, taking her cold little hand within my own.

“She talked freely, telling me that her name is Rosa Browning.  As I now recall the conversation, I find that I know but little indeed of her actual circumstances, and nothing at all of the location of her home.

“She spoke most tenderly now and then of ‘grandpa’, and occasionally mentioned ‘Mis’ Gray’, who, I imagine, is not specially noted for her amiability.  But oh, father, when she would refer to her mother, it seemed that her heart was almost crushed with anxiety, and that her burden was greater than she could bear!”