ve you seen a little boy?"

It reminded me a little of the story, the other way round, of a lost boy
who asked a man, "Please, sir, have you seen a man without a little boy,
because if you have, I'm the little boy."

She looked as anxious and as distraught as that little boy must have
looked, I am sure.

"I think," said Diana, "you will find him behind that rock.--Sara,"
called Diana, "bring the little boy here."

A small portion of Sara's person appeared round the rock:--"We're velly
busy," she said.

So rapidly do women make friendships!

"He's quite safe," said Diana; "your little brother, I suppose?"

The girl blushed. "No, I'm his mother," she said.

She looked so young and so pretty, and her hair must have moved Zerlina
to tears, it was so beautiful, and grew so prettily on her forehead. But
she looked too young to be searching for lost babies all by herself.

"How old is he?" asked Diana.

"He's three," she said; then added, "his father never saw him; he went
to the war soon after we were married, and he was killed. Baby is just
like him," and she unfastened a miniature she wore on a chain round her
neck and handed it to Diana.

I am sure Diana saw nothing but a blur, but she managed to say, "You
must be glad! Come and see my little girl, she is very much the same
age."

"What an extraordinarily communicative person!" said Zerlina as they
walked off. "Just imagine telling strangers the whole of your history
like that. I wonder if her husband left her well off."

"Can't you see he did?" I said.

"No; I don't think she is very well dressed, but you never can tell with
that picturesque style of dressing. It may or may not be expensive; even
that old embroidery only means probably that she had a grandmother.
It is a terrible thing for a girl of that age to be left with a boy to
bring up. I know, Betty, just what you are thinking--cold, heartless,
mercenary Zerlina! But I'm practical."

When Diana came back, I could see in her face that she knew all about
the poor little widow. It is wonderful what a comfort it seems to be
even to strangers to confide in Diana. For one thing I feel sure they
know that she won't tell, and that makes all the difference. It is a
relief sometimes to tell some one, although some things can be better
borne when nobody knows. But I imagine there was little bitterness in
the sorrow of this girl widow. She too had learned something from Diana,
for she turned to me and said,