Chapter 26

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_ CHAPTER XXVI The cry died away in Dorothy's throat as her terrified eyes fell upon the bundle which she held in her arms. Yes, it was a little child. "Oh, the cruelty of it!" she sobbed aloud. Some one had doomed it to death on this bitter night, and she thanked Heaven for bringing her to that spot to save its life. Wrapping it quickly in the ends of her long thick cloak, Dorothy hurried to the nearest shelter with it. This happily proved to be a small cottage on the outskirts of the town. A solitary ray of light shone from one of the windows, and without hesitation Dorothy hastened up the little narrow path to the porch and rang the bell. She quite believed that she would know the inmates of the cottage, for she well knew every one in the village. It was a strange woman that opened the door at length and peered out at her, and a shrill voice cried: "Why, as I live, Maria, it's a woman standing out here with a child in her arms! Why, what in the world can you want?" she cried, addressing Dorothy. "I thought I should see some one here whom I knew," faltered Dorothy. "No; we are strangers here," replied the woman. "We have just moved into this cottage to-day. We are from down country, my man and me, and my girl Maria. We don't know any one hereabouts, so I can't direct you. But, dear me! it's an uncanny time of night for a woman to be out. You ought to be careful of your little baby, if you have no thought for yourself, ma'am." Dorothy tried to speak, but words seemed to fail her. "But won't you come in and rest for a bit?" asked the woman, pityingly. "I can't let you go away without at least warming yourself by the fire. I am sitting up with my sick daughter." Dorothy gladly accepted the kindly offer and entered. Dorothy was about to tell the woman the story of how she had rescued the little one, when it occurred to her that this would necessitate her explaining how she herself had come to be in that locality at that hour, and this she shrank from doing. The woman was a stranger in the neighborhood, she argued to herself, and would never know her again. Why not hold her peace? But, then, what would she do with the little one that Fate had thrown so strangely upon her mercy? She quite believed that it did not belong to any one in the neighborhood, nor had she heard of a little one like this. She saw that the clothing upon it was of the daintiest texture, and the embroidery upon it was of the finest. "Oh, what a beautiful little baby!" cried the woman, her heart at once warming toward the little stranger. "How much it looks like you!" she added, turning to Dorothy. "What!" cried the girl, in amazement. "I said your baby looked like you," repeated the woman. She wondered why the young girl flushed to the roots of her golden hair. "We must go now," said Dorothy at length; "and I thank you, madame, for your hospitality." The woman, with clouded eyes, looked after the slender figure as it disappeared. "A lovely but very mysterious young woman!" she ejaculated. "I hope everything is all right. She is so very young. It is a great pity for the little child." Meanwhile, Dorothy struggled on through the dim light of the fast dying night, and soon found herself at the railway station without any seeming volition of her own. In her pocket was her purse, which the good old doctor in one of his generous moods had filled to overflowing. She had had no occasion to use it until now. The poor little one had commenced to cry now, and when Dorothy hushed its cries it cuddled up to her with a grateful sob and nestled its head on her arm. Why shouldn't she keep the baby that fate had sent directly into her arms? she asked herself? Yes, she would keep it. For was there not a bond of sympathy between this poor little one, whom those who should have loved and cared for had consigned to a watery grave, and herself, who had sought the same watery grave to end her own wretched existence? "You and I will live for each other, baby," she sobbed, holding the wee mite closer. "I will keep you for my very own, and I will pray for the time to come when you will be big enough for me to tell you all my sorrows. You will put your little arms around my neck and your soft, warm cheek against mine, and try to comfort me." Dorothy had made her resolve, little dreaming that it would end in a tragedy. She boarded the train, and was soon steaming away toward New York city--the great, cruel city of New York, rampant with wickedness and crime. More than one passenger noticed the lovely young girl with the tiny infant in her arms, and marveled as to whether or not it could possibly belong to her; for surely the girl could not be a day over sixteen, or seventeen, at most. All unconscious of this close scrutiny, Dorothy watched the little one with wondering eyes all the way until she reached the metropolis. Her first idea was to seek a boarding place, and then she could look about her. To her dismay, among the half score to which she walked until she could almost drop down from exhaustion, no one cared to take her and the child in; and it seemed to her, too, that they were rude in refusing her, and more than one actually shut the door in her face. She was tired--so tired--carrying the heavy child in her arms. She had given the name Miss Brown to each instance, and at last one landlady came out bluntly and said to her: "It would sound a deal more proper to call yourself Mrs. Brown, if you please, ma'am," at the same time pointing to the child in her arms. Then it dawned upon Dorothy's mind why every one had refused them shelter, even for money. "Why shouldn't I call myself Mrs. instead of Miss Brown? One name is as good as another," she said to herself. It was all the same to her; anything, so that she would not be separated from this poor little baby, whom she had learned to love in those short hours with all the strength of her yearning heart. At the next boarding house, recklessly enough, Dorothy gave the name of Mrs. Brown, and she found no trouble in securing accommodations there. "Poor child! she seems so young to be left a widow!" exclaimed the landlady, in relating to her other boarders that night that she had let room sixteen to such a pretty young woman, with the loveliest little angel of a baby that ever was born. No one ever yet took a false position without finding himself ere long hedged in with difficulties. And so poor Dorothy found it. She was continually plied with questions by the rest of the boarders as to how long since her husband had died, and how long since she had taken off mourning, or if she had put on mourning at all for him, and if baby reminded her of its poor, dear, dead papa. Dorothy's alarm at this can more readily be imagined than described. She almost felt like bursting into a flood of tears and running from the room. It had gone so far now that she was ashamed to tell the truth; and then there was the terrible fear that if people knew it was not her very own they would take it from her; and she had learned to love it with all the fondness of her desperate, lonely heart. And then, too, it seemed to know her and feel sorry for her. It knew her, and would coo to her, and cry for her to take it. She had named it, long since, little Pearl, because she had fished it from the water. But, to tell the truth, she found it a terrible responsibility on her hands. She did not know what to do with the child. She could not go out and leave it in the house, and she couldn't take it with her. She had been searching for a situation the last few days, and, to her unspeakable horror, she found that no one wanted a young woman encumbered with a child. Had she been older, she would have known better than to have assumed such a responsibility; but Dorothy was young, and had some of life's bitterest lessons yet to learn. Dorothy had turned her face resolutely against the fortune which Doctor Bryan had left. She quite believed, if she was not there to receive it, it would go to Kendal, her faithless lover. She wanted him to have it. She did not care for any of it. She had been only a working girl when Doctor Bryan sought her out and took her to his home; she could be only a working girl again. _

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