the street, I brought it in and warmed it.  Father was very angry when he came, and said he’d take it to the workhouse the next morning, and flyted me sadly about it.  But when morning came I could not bear to part with it; it had slept in my arms all night; and I’ve heard what workhouse bringing-up is.  So I told father I’d give up going out working and stay at home and keep school, if I might only keep the baby; and, after a while, he said if I earned enough for him to have his comforts, he’d let me; but he’s never taken to her.  Now, don’t tremble so—­I’ve but a little more to tell—­and maybe I’m wrong in telling it; but I used to work next door to Mrs. Lomax’s, in Brabazon Street, and the servants were all thick together; and I heard about Bessy (they called her) being sent away.  I don’t know that ever I saw her; but the time would be about fitting to this child’s age, and I’ve sometimes fancied it was hers.  And now, will you look at the little clothes that came with her—­bless her!”

But Mrs. Leigh had fainted.  The strange joy and shame, and gushing love for the little child, had overpowered her; it was some time before Susan could bring her round.  There she was all trembling, sick with impatience to look at the little frocks.  Among them was a slip of paper which Susan had forgotten to name, that had been pinned to the bundle.  On it was scrawled in a round stiff hand—­

“Call her Anne.  She does not cry much, and takes a deal of notice.  God bless you and forgive me.”

The writing was no clue at all; the name “Anne,” common though it was, seemed something to build upon.  But Mrs. Leigh recognised one of the frocks instantly, as being made out of a part of a gown that she and her daughter had bought together in Rochdale.

She stood up, and stretched out her hands in the attitude of blessing over Susan’s bent head.

“God bless you, and show you His mercy in your need, as you have shown it to this little child.”

She took the little creature in her arms, and smoothed away her sad looks to a smile, and kissed it fondly, saying over and over again, “Nanny, Nanny, my little Nanny.”  At last the child was soothed, and looked in her face and smiled back again.

“It has her eyes,” said she to Susan.

“I never saw her to the best of my knowledge.  I think it must be hers by the frock.  But where can she be?”

“God knows,” said Mrs. Leigh; “I dare not think she’s dead.  I’m sure she isn’t.”

“No; she’s not dead.  Every now and then a little packet is thrust in under our door, with, may be, two half-crowns in it; once it was half-a-sovereign.  Altogether I’ve got seven-and-thirty shillings wrapped up for Nanny.  I never touch it, but I’ve often thought the poor mother feels near to God when she brings this money.  Father wanted to set the policeman to watch, but I said No; for I was afraid if she was watched she might not come, and it seemed such a holy thing to be checking her in, I could not find in my heart to do it.”