She was on her way home one afternoon from a visit to the mission-school where she had first heard of the poor baby in Grubb’s court.  All that day thoughts of little Andy kept crowding into her mind.  She could not push aside his image as she saw it on Christmas, when he sat among the children, his large eyes resting in such a wistful look upon her face.  Her eyes often grew dim and her heart full as she looked upon that tender face, pictured for her as distinctly as if photographed to natural sight.

“Oh my baby, my baby!” came almost audibly from her lips, in a burst of irrepressible feeling, for ever since she had seen this child, the thought of him linked itself with that of her lost baby.

Up to this time her father had carefully concealed his interview with Mrs. Bray.  He was in so much doubt as to the effect that woman’s communication might produce while yet the child was missing that he deemed it best to maintain the strictest silence until it could be found.

Walking along with heart and thought where they dwelt for so large a part of her time, Edith, in turning a corner, came upon a woman who stopped at sight of her as if suddenly fastened to the ground—­stopped only for an instant, like one surprised by an unexpected and unwelcome encounter, and then made a motion to pass on.  But Edith, partly from memory and partly from intuition, recognized her nurse, and catching fast hold of her, said in a low imperative voice, while a look of wild excitement spread over her face,

“Where is my baby?”

The woman tried to shake her off, but Edith held her with a grasp that could not be broken.

“For Heaven’s sake,” exclaimed the woman “let go of me!  This is the public street, and you’ll have a crowd about us in a moment, and the police with them.”

But Edith kept fast hold of her.

“First tell me where I can find my baby,” she answered.

“Come along,” said the woman, moving as she spoke in the direction Edith was going when they met.  “If you want a row with the police, I don’t.”

Edith was close to her side, with her hand yet upon her and her voice in her ears.

“My baby!  Quick!  Say!  Where can I find my baby?”

“What do I know of your baby?  You are a fool, or mad!” answered the woman, trying to throw her off.  “I don’t know you.”

“But I know you, Mrs. Bray,” said Edith, speaking the name at a venture as the one she remembered hearing the servant give to her mother.

At this the woman’s whole manner changed, and Edith saw that she was right—­that this was, indeed, the accomplice of her mother.

“And now,” she added, in voice grown calm and resolute, “I do not mean to let you escape until I get sure knowledge of my child.  If you fly from me, I will follow and call for the police.  If you have any of the instincts of a woman left, you will know that I am desperately in earnest.  What is a street excitement or a temporary arrest by the police, or even a station-house exposure, to me, in comparison with the recovery of my child?  Where is he?”