is very, very kind of you, Mrs. Wilson,’ said she.  Those were her words.  ‘Mayhap it is,’ says I; and my heart felt like lead.  Mother made a sign to your mamma that she should not hurry me.  I saw the signal, for I was as quick as she was; but I never let on I saw it.  At last I plucked up a bit of courage, and I said, ‘Let me see it.’  So mother took you from the girl that held you all wrapped up, and mother put you on my knees; and I took a good look at you.  You had the sweetest little face that ever came into the world, but all peaked and pining for want of nature.  With you being on my knees, my bosom began to yearn over you, it did.  ’The child is starved,’ said I; ’that is all its grief.  And you did right to bring it’ here.’  Your mother clasps her hands, ‘Oh, Mrs. Wilson,’ says she, ‘God grant it is not too late.’  So then I smiled back to her, and I said, ‘Don’t you fret; in a fortnight you shan’t know her.’  You see I was beginning to feel proud of what I knew I could do for you.  I was a healthy young woman, and could have nursed two children as easy as some can one.  To make a long story short, I gave you the breast then and there; and you didn’t leave us long in doubt whether cow’s milk or mother’s milk is God’s will for sucklings.  Well, your mamma put her hands before her face, and I saw the tears force their way between her fingers.  So, when she was gone, I said to my mother, ‘What was that for?’ ‘I shan’t tell you,’ says she.  ‘Do, mother,’ says I. So she said, ’I wonder at your having to ask; can’t you see it was jealousy-like.  Do you think she has not her burden to bear in this world as well as you?  How would you like to see another woman do a mother’s part for a child of yours, and you sit looking on like a toy-mother?  Eh!  Miss Lucy, but I was vexed for her at that, and my heart softened; and I used to take you up to the great house, and spend nearly the whole day there, not to rob her of her child more than need be.”

“Oh, Mrs. Wilson!  Oh, you kind, noble-hearted creature, surely Heaven will reward you.”

“That is past praying for, my dear.  Heaven wasn’t going to be long in debt to a farmer’s wife, you may be sure; not a day, not an hour.  I had hardly laid you to my breast when you seemed to grow to my heart.  My milk had been tormenting me for one thing.  My good mother had thought of that, I’ll go bail; and of course you relieved me.  But, above all, you numbed the wound in my heart, and healed it by degrees:  a part of my love that lay in the churchyard seemed to come back like, and settle on the little helpless darling that milked me.  At whiles I forgot you were not my own; and even when I remembered it, it was—­I don’t know—­somehow—­as if it wasn’t so.  I knew in my head you were none of mine, but what of that?  I didn’t feel it here.  Well, miss, I nursed you a year and two months, and a finer little girl never was seen, and such a weight!  And, of course, I was proud of you; and often your dear mother tried to