“Surely,” she said, with a sudden sinking of heart, “you have not come to take her away?”

“This letter will explain my object in visiting you,” said the woman, drawing a sealed envelope from a bag which she carried on her arm.

The cooper’s wife nervously broke open the letter, and read as follows:—­

“Mrs. Crump;

“Eight years ago last New Year’s night, a child was left on your door-steps, with a note containing a request that you would care for it kindly as your own.  Money was sent, at the same time, to defray the expenses of such care.  The writer of this note is the mother of the child Ida.  There is no need to say, here, why I sent the child away from me.  You will easily understand that only the most imperative circumstances would have led me to such a step.  Those circumstances still prevent me from reclaiming the child, and I am content, still, to leave Ida in your charge.  Yet, there is one thing of which I am (sic) desirious.  You will understand a mother’s desire to see, face to face, the child who belongs, of right, to her.  With this view, I have come to this neighborhood.  I will not say where, for concealment is necessary to me.  I send this note by a trustworthy attendant,—­Mrs. Hardwick, my little Ida’s nurse in her infancy,—­who will conduct Ida to me, and return her again to you.  Ida is not to know whom she is visiting.  No doubt she believes you her mother, and it is well.  Tell her only, that it is a lady who takes an interest in her, and that will satisfy her childish curiosity.  I make this request as

“Ida’s mother.”

Mrs. Crump read this letter with mingled feelings.  Pity for the writer; a vague curiosity in regard to the mysterious circumstances which had compelled her to resort to such a step; a half feeling of jealousy, that there should be one who had a claim to her dear adopted daughter superior to her own; and a strong feeling of relief at the assurance that Ida was not to be permanently removed,—­all these feelings affected the cooper’s wife.

“So you were Ida’s nurse,” she said, gently.

“Yes, ma’am,” said the stranger.  “I hope the dear child is well.”

“Perfectly well.  How much her mother must have suffered from the separation!”

“Indeed, you may say so, ma’am.  It came near to break her heart.”

“So it must,” said sympathizing Mrs. Crump.  “There is one thing I would like to ask,” she continued, hesitating and reddening.  “Don’t answer it unless you please.  Was—­is Ida the child of shame?”

“She is not,” answered the nurse.

Mrs. Crump looked relieved.  It removed a thought from her mind which would now and then intrude, though it had never, for an instant, lessened her affection for the child.

At this point in the conversation, the cooper entered the house.  He had just come home on an errand.

“It is my husband,” said Mrs. Crump, turning to her visitor, by way of explanation.  “Timothy, will you come in a moment?”