"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 are right," said Mrs. Hardwick. "I don't blame you in the least. I shall report it to Ida's mother as a proof of your attachment to the child."

"When do you wish Ida to go with you?" asked Mrs. Harding.

"Can you let her go this afternoon?"

"Why," said the cooper's wife, hesitating, "I should like to have a chance to wash out some clothes for her. I want her to appear as neat as possible when she meets her mother."

The nurse hesitated, but presently replied: "I don't wish to hurry you.

If you will let me know when she will be ready, I will call for her."

"I think I can get her ready early to-morrow morning."

"That will answer. I will call for her then."

The nurse rose, and gathered her shawl about her.

"Where are you going, Mrs. Hardwick?" asked the cooper's wife.

"To a hotel," was the reply.

"We cannot allow that," said Mrs. Harding, kindly. "It's a pity if we cannot accommodate Ida's old nurse for one night, or ten times as long, for that matter."

"My wife is quite right," said the cooper, hesitatingly. "We must insist on your stopping with us."

The nurse hesitated, and looked irresolute. It was plain she would have preferred to be elsewhere, but a remark which Mrs. Harding made, decided her to accept the invitation.

It was this: "You know, Mrs. Hardwick, if Ida is to go with you, she ought to have a little chance to get acquainted with you before you go."

"I will accept your kind invitation," she said; "but I am afraid I shall be in your way."

"Not in the least. It will be a pleasure to us to have you here. If you will excuse me now, I will go out and attend to my dinner, which I am afraid is getting behindhand."

Left to herself, the nurse behaved in a manner which might be regarded as singular. She rose from her seat, and approached the mirror. She took a full survey of herself as she stood there, and laughed a short, hard laugh. Then she made a formal courtesy to her own reflection, saying: "How do you do, Mrs. Hardwick?"

"Did you speak?" asked the cooper, who was pa.s.sing through the entry on his way out.

"No," answered the nurse, rather awkwardly. "I may have said something to myself. It's of no consequence."

"Somehow," thought the cooper, "I don't fancy the woman's looks; but I dare say I am prejudiced. We're all of us as G.o.d made us."

When Mrs. Harding was making preparations for the noonday meal, she imparted to Rachel the astonishing information which has already been detailed to the reader.

"I don't believe a word of it," said Rachel, resolutely. "The woman's an impostor. I knew she was, the very minute I set eyes on her."

This remark was so characteristic of Rachel, that her sister-in-law did not attach any special importance to it. Rachel, of course, had no grounds for the opinion she so confidently expressed. It was consistent, however, with her general estimate of human nature.

"What object could she have in inventing such a story?" asked Mrs.

Harding.

"What object? Hundreds of 'em," said Rachel, rather indefinitely. "Mark my words; if you let her carry off Ida, it'll be the last you'll ever see of her."

"Try to look on the bright side, Rachel. Nothing is more natural than that her mother should want to see her."

"Why couldn't she come herself?" muttered Rachel.

"The letter explains."

"I don't see that it does."

"It says that same reasons exist for concealment as ever."

"And what are they, I should like to know? I don't like mysteries, for my part."

"We won't quarrel with them, at any rate, since they enable us to keep Ida with us."

Aunt Rachel shook her head, as if she were far from satisfied.