part, she assumed
and received simply the style of "Madam." A queen may be called
"Madam," you know. It covers an indefinite greatness. But when she
spoke of her late,--very long ago,--husband, she always named him as
"Sir Archibald."

Madam Mucklegrand's daughter wanted a wet-nurse for her little baby.

Up in Z----, there was a poor woman whose husband, a young brakeman
on the railroad, had been suddenly killed three months ago, before
her child was born. There was a sister here in Boston, who could
take care of it for her if she could go to be foster-mother to some
rich little baby, who was yet so poor as this--to need one. So
Rosamond Holabird, who was especially interested for Mrs. Jopson,
had written to Asenath, and had an advertisement put in the
"Transcript," referring to Mrs. Scherman for information. And the
Mucklegrand carriage had rolled up, the next day, to the house in
Harrisburg Square.

They wanted to see the woman, of course, and to hear all about
her,--more than Mrs. Scherman was quite able to tell; therefore when
she sent a little note up to Z----, by the evening mail, Rosamond
replied with her "Might she come?"

She brought Jane Jopson and the baby down with her, left them over
night at Mrs. Ginnever's, in Sheafe Street, and was to go for them
next morning and take them up to Spreadsplendid Park. She had sent a
graceful, polite little note to Madam Mucklegrand, dated "Westover,
Z----," and signed, "Rosamond Holabird," offering to do this, that
there might not be the danger of Jane's losing the chance in the
meanwhile.

It was certainly to accomplish the good deed that Rosamond cared
the most; but it was also certainly something to accomplish it in
that very high quarter. It lent a piquancy to the occasion.

She came down to breakfast very nicely and discriminatingly dressed,
with the elegant quietness of a lady who knew what was simply
appropriate to such an errand and the early hour, but who meant to
be recognized as the lady in every unmistakable touch; and there was
a carriage ordered for her at half past nine.

Sin Scherman was a cute little matron; she discerned the dash of
subdued importance in Rosamond's air; and she thought it very
likely, in the Boston nature of things, that it would get
wholesomely and civilly toned down.

Just at this moment, Rosamond, putting on her little straw bonnet
with real lace upon it, and her simple little narrow-bordered green
shawl, that was yet, as