t at his
feet, though before then it had seemed a good way off. He went on a few
steps, peering at the ground, and soon he saw a little white shape lying
huddled up among the withered heather, and sobbing fit to break your
heart to hear. It was a little girl; she seemed about two years old, and
when she felt him trying to lift her up, she stopped crying and wound
her tiny arms about his neck, so that, if he had wanted to set her down
again, he could scarce have done so. And before he knew where he was
there she had settled herself in his arms as content as could be. He
spoke to her, thinking she might understand.

'"Who are you, baby?" he said, "and where have you come from? And what
am I to do with you?"

'It was half like speaking to himself, and no answer did he get, except
that she cuddled herself closer into his arms, and it came over him that
take her home he must, whatever came of it, and in less than a minute
she seemed to have fallen asleep. He drew what he could of his coat over
her, for it was bitter cold, and it was hard work fighting against the
wind, tired as he was too, and misdoubting him sorely as to what his
poor mother would say, and small blame to her, when she saw what he had
brought with him. But queer things happened during that walk; whenever
his heart went down the most, he'd feel her little hand patting at his
cheek, or one of her fair curls would blow across his lips, as if it was
kissing him, and with that he'd cheer up again and his feet would feel
new spring in them. So they came at last to his home, and there was his
mother peeping out, wild night though it was, and listening for his
coming, for she had been getting very frightened.

'"Is it you, Robin?" she called out, and sad as her heart was that
evening, it gave a leap of joy when she heard her boy's voice in return.

'But it was as he had been fearing, when he came in and she saw by the
firelight what he was carrying.

'"I couldn't help it, mother," he said, "nobody could have helped it,"
and he told his story.

'"No," said the poor woman, "you couldn't have left the baby to die all
alone out on the moor a night like this. Though it's little but shelter
and warmth we can give her. There's but a crust for your own supper, my
poor Robin."

'She took the child from him and laid it down on the settle by the fire,
and as she did so it opened its eyes and smiled at her, and for a minute
her heart felt lightened, just as it had been