"Who can it be?" said Mrs. Harding. "Aunt Rachel, there's somebody at the door; won't you be kind enough to see who it is?"

 

"People have no business to call at such an hour in the morning," grumbled Rachel, as she laid down her knitting reluctantly, and rose from her seat. "Nobody seems to have any consideration for anybody else. But that's the way of the world."

 

Opening the outer door, she saw before her a tall woman, dressed in a gown of some dark stuff, with strongly marked, and not altogether pleasant, features.

 

"Are you the lady of the house?" inquired the visitor, abruptly.

 

"There ain't any ladies in this house," answered Rachel. "You've come to the wrong place. We have to work for a living here."

 

"The woman of the house, then," said the stranger, rather impatiently. "It doesn't make any difference about names. Are you the one I want to see?"

 

"No, I ain't," said Rachel, shortly.

 

"Will you tell your mistress that I want to see her, then?"

 

"I have no mistress," said Rachel. "What do you take me for?"

 

"I thought you might be the servant, but that don't matter. I want to see Mrs. Harding. Will you call her, or shall I go and announce myself?"

 

"I don't know as she'll see you. She's busy in the kitchen."

 

"Her business can't be as important as what I've come about. Tell her that, will you?"

 

Rachel did not fancy the stranger's tone or manner. Certainly she did not manifest much politeness. But the spinster's curiosity was excited, and this led her the more readily to comply with the request.

 

"Stay here, and I'll call her," she said.

 

"There's a woman wants to see you," announced Rachel.

 

"Who is it?"

 

"I don't know. She hasn't got any manners, that's all I know about her."

 

Mrs. Harding presented herself at the door.

 

"Won't you come in?" she asked.

 

"Yes, I will. What I've got to say to you may take some time."

 

Mrs. Harding, wondering vaguely what business this strange visitor could have with her, led the way to the sitting room.

 

"You have in your family," said the woman, after seating herself, "a girl named Ida."

 

Mrs. Harding looked up suddenly and anxiously. Could it be that the secret of Ida's birth was to be revealed at last? Was it possible that she was to be taken from her?

 

"Yes," she answered, simply.

 

"Who is not your child?"

 

"But I love her as much. I have always taught her to look upon me as her mother."

 

"I presume so. My visit has reference to her."

 

"Can you tell me anything of her parentage?" inquired Mrs. Harding, eagerly.

 

"I was her nurse," said the stranger.

 

Mrs. Harding scrutinized anxiously the hard features of the woman. It was, at least, a relief to know that no tie of blood connected her with Ida, though, even upon her assurance, she would hardly have believed it.

 

"Who were her parents?"

 

"I am not permitted to tell."

 

Mrs. Harding looked disappointed.

 

"Surely," she said, with a sudden sinking of the 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 in her hand.

 

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

 

"MRS. HARDING: Seven years ago last New Year's night a child was left on your doorsteps, 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 explain here why I sent away the child from me. You will easily understand that it was not done willingly, and that only the most imperative necessity would have led me to such a step. The same necessity still prevents me from reclaiming my child, and I am content still to leave Ida in your charge. Yet there is one thing I desire. You will understand a mother's wish to see, face to face, her own child. With this view I have come to this neighborhood. I will not say where I am, 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 who she is visiting. No doubt she believes you to be her mother, and it is well that she should so regard you. 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. Harding 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 breaking her heart."

 

"I don't wonder," said sympathizing Mrs. Harding. "I can judge of that by my own feelings. I don't know what I should do, if Ida were to be taken from me."

 

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

 

"It is my husband," said Mrs. Harding, turning to her visitor, by way of explanation. "Timothy, will you come here a moment?"

 

The cooper regarded the stranger with some surprise. His wife hastened to introduce her as Mrs. Hardwick, Ida's old nurse, and placed in her husband's hands the letter which we have already read.

 

He was not a rapid reader, and it took him some time to get through the letter. He laid it down on his knee, and looked thoughtful.

 

"This is indeed unexpected," he said, at last. "It is a new development in Ida's history. May I ask, Mrs. Hardwick, if you have any further proof? I want to be careful about a child that I love as my own. Can you furnish any other proof that you are what you represent?"

 

"I judged that the letter would be sufficient. Doesn't it speak of me as the nurse?"

 

"True; but how can we be sure that the writer is Ida's mother?"

 

"The tone of the letter, sir. Would anybody else write like that?"

 

"Then you have read the letter?" asked the cooper, quickly.

 

"It was read to me before I set out."

 

"By whom?"

 

"By Ida's mother. I do not blame you for your caution," said the visitor. "You must be deeply interested in the happiness of the dear child, of whom you have taken such excellent care. I don't mind telling you that I was the one who left her at your door, seven years ago, and that I never left the neighborhood until I saw you take her in."

 

"And it was this that enabled you to find the house to-day?"

 

"You forget," corrected the nurse, "that you were not then living in this house, but in another, some rods off, on the left-hand side of the street."

 

"You are right," said Timothy. "I am inclined to believe in the truth of your story. You must pardon my testing you in such a manner, but I was not willing to yield up Ida, even for a little time, without feeling confident of the hands she was falling into."

 

"You............