"My love, what's that?" asked my father,
without looking up.

"I can't imagine!" my mother answered,
in a puzzled tone, laying down her book.

Just at this moment we heard a quick step
running up the stairs, and all our eyes with
one accord turned to the door, which in two
or three minutes was burst open, and to our
extreme amazement, in rushed our servant
Ann with a little half-naked child in her
arms. Yes, that little creature standing
on the step, was the only thing to be seen
when she had opened the door.

"Upon my word this is going too far," my
father exclaimed, angrily, when we had heard
Ann's story. "It isn't two months since the
same trick was played in town. Ann, call
Tom to get a lantern immediately, and
follow me. We must make a search; though
indeed it's hopeless to think of catching any
one on such a night as this. Whoever has
done it is out of reach by this time. My
dear," he turned round as he was hurrying
from the room, "don't do anything with the
child until I come back; I'm afraid she's ill,"
and he closed the door.

I shall never forget what a poor little
object it was. It had scarcely an atom of
clothing on it—just a torn old frock that
would hardly hang together, and its poor
little white shoulders and arms were all bare,
and wet with the heavy rain. Her pretty
fair hair was wet too, but her face was what
attracted and astonished me most, for in
spite of the bitter coldness of the night, it
was glowing like fire, with a spot of the
brightest scarlet on each cheek, and her large
blue eyes so unnaturally bright that it was
quite painful to look at them. Yet such a
sweet face it was!

My mother made her kneel beside me on
my couch, and we talked to her, and kissed
her, and taking off the old wet frock, wrapped
my mother's shawl around her; but all the
time and though she was certainly more than
two years old, she remained as perfectly
unmoved as though she had been a little statue,
only those great bright eyes were fixed upon
my face, until I began to get absolutely
frightened at her.

In about twenty minutes my father
returned from his useless search.

"We can do nothing more to-night," he said,
in a tone of considerable vexation, as he joined
us again. "Poor child, she's very feverish
indeed; why, exposure on such a night is
enough to kill her. My love, you must put
her to bed; there's no help for it, and I'll
see what I can do for her. But really it's a
little too much to expect that all the sick
children of the neighbourhood are not only
to be cured for nothing, but to be housed too,
by the physician." And my father left the
room to change his wet garments, in no very
contented state of mind.

My mother put out her hands to lift the
child from iny side, and then for the first
time a moaning sound broke from her, and
leaning forward she caught my dress with her
little hands, and held it tight, half crying, as
if she feared to go away. I pressed her to
me, and clasped my arms around her. I
couldn't help it – and she let me do it, and
laid down her head upon my bosom, the
dear child! with that plaintive moaning sound
again. I was almost weeping myself – half
with pity, half with love – for I loved her so
much already, as we love all things that
cling to us, all things that – weaker than
ourselves – appeal to us for protection. And
so, for I could not bear that against her will
she should be made to leave me, still keeping
her in my arms, I had the couch wheeled
into my bedroom; and there, in Kate's bed
we laid her, poor little weary suffering
thing.

It would be too long to tell you all about
her illness, for she was ill for many weeks;
how patient she was; how anxious we all were
for her; how, in spite of a few cross words at
first, my kind father tended her with as much
care as ever he bestowed upon his wealthiest
patient; how my dear mother sat up night
after night with her, as though she had been
her own child; how the little thing crept so
into all our hearts, that when at last one
evening my father pronounced her out of
danger, even his voice was broken with
emotion, and we were fairly crying – both rny
mother and I.

Nor will I trouble you with an account
of all the fruitless search that was made to
discover who she was or where she came
from, but one thing I must mention, because
it perplexed us very much, and added to our
difficulty in deciding how to dispose of her.
It was this: that we began to suspect – what
at first had never entered our heads – that she
had been stolen, and was not a poor woman's
child. It was her own dim recollections of
past things that gave rise to this supposition,
but the fever had so confused all things in her
poor little head that we never could reach
any certainty upon the subject.

Well, the end of it all was that we could
not part from her, for we had all grown to
love her so well already, and we knew that if
we sent her away from us, the only place that
would receive her was the workhouse. So it
was quite settled at last that she should stay
with us, and because she had taken to me so
much from the first, they pronounced, laughing,
that she should be my child; and I was
so happy.

I called her Fortune—Fortune Wildred we
baptized her – that, should she never find her
own surname, she might at least have some
proper claim to ours. Of course she must
have had a Christian name before; indeed she
said she remembered it, and declared that
it was Willie; but, Willie seemed so odd a
name to give a little girl, that we agreed it
would not do, and then I chose Fortune.

My little Fortune – she was so dear to me,