of agony which the quivering lips refused to utter.  Those wretched, stony eyes forced the tears down Susan’s cheeks, and, as if this sympathy gave the mother strength, she went on in a low voice—­“I had a daughter once, my heart’s darling.  Her father thought I made too much on her, and that she’d grow marred staying at home; so he said she mun go among strangers and learn to rough it.  She were young, and liked the thought of seeing a bit of the world; and her father heard on a place in Manchester.  Well!  I’ll not weary you.  That poor girl were led astray; and first thing we heard on it, was when a letter of her father’s was sent back by her missus, saying she’d left her place, or, to speak right, the master had turned her into the street soon as he had heard of her condition—­and she not seventeen!”

She now cried aloud; and Susan wept too.  The little child looked up into their faces, and, catching their sorrow, began to whimper and wail.  Susan took it softly up, and hiding her face in its little neck, tried to restrain her tears, and think of comfort for the mother.  At last she said—­

“Where is she now?”

“Lass!  I dunnot know,” said Mrs. Leigh, checking her sobs to communicate this addition to her distress.  “Mrs. Lomax telled me she went—­”

“Mrs. Lomax—­what Mrs. Lomax?”

“Her as lives in Brabazon Street.  She telled me my poor wench went to the workhouse fra there.  I’ll not speak again the dead; but if her father would but ha’ letten me—­but he were one who had no notion—­no, I’ll not say that; best say nought.  He forgave her on his death-bed.  I daresay I did na go th’ right way to work.”

“Will you hold the child for me one instant?” said Susan.

“Ay, if it will come to me.  Childer used to be fond on me till I got the sad look on my face that scares them, I think.”

But the little girl clung to Susan; so she carried it upstairs with her.  Mrs. Leigh sat by herself—­how long she did not know.

Susan came down with a bundle of far-worn baby-clothes.

“You must listen to me a bit, and not think too much about what I’m going to tell you.  Nanny is not my niece, nor any kin to me, that I know of.  I used to go out working by the day.  One night, as I came home, I thought some woman was following me; I turned to look.  The woman, before I could see her face (for she turned it to one side), offered me something.  I held out my arms by instinct; she dropped a bundle into them, with a bursting sob that went straight to my heart.  It was a baby.  I looked round again; but the woman was gone.  She had run away as quick as lightning.  There was a little packet of clothes—­very few—­and as if they were made out of its mother’s gowns, for they were large patterns to buy for a baby.  I was always fond of babies; and I had not my wits about me, father says; for it was very cold, and when I’d seen as well as I could (for it was past ten) that there was no one in