ul nature.

Nor clouds nor low-born vapors drop the dew. It only gathers under a
pure heaven and the tender eyes of stars. Mrs. Dillingham had always
held a heart that could respond to the touch of a child. It was dark,
its ways were crooked, it was not a happy heart, but for the moment her
whole nature was flooded with a tender passion. A flash of lightning
from heaven makes the darkest night its own, and gilds with glory the
uncouth shapes that grope and crawl beneath its cover.

"And your name is Harry?" she said.

"Yes."

"Do you mind telling me about yourself?"

Harry hesitated. He knew that he ought not to do it. He had received
imperative commands not to tell anybody about himself; but his
temptation to yield to the beautiful lady's wishes was great, for he was
heart-starved like herself. Mrs. Balfour was kind, even affectionate,
but he felt that he had never filled the place in her heart of the boy
she had lost. She did not take him into her embrace, and lavish caresses
upon him. He had hungered for just this, and the impulse to show the
whole of his heart and life to Mrs. Dillingham was irresistible.

"If you'll never tell."

"I will never tell, Harry."

"Never, never tell?"

"Never."

"You are Mr. Belcher's friend, aren't you?"

"I know Mr. Belcher."

"If Mr. Belcher should tell you that he would kill you if you didn't
tell, what would you do?"

"I should call the police," responded Mrs. Dillingham, with a smile.

Then Harry, in a simple, graphic way, told her all about the hard,
wretched life in Sevenoaks, the death of his mother, the insanity of his
father, the life in the poor-house, the escape, the recovery of his
father's health, his present home, and the occasion of his own removal
to New York. The narrative was so wonderful, so full of pathos, so
tragic, so out of all proportion in its revelation of wretchedness to
the little life at her side, that the lady was dumb. Unconsciously to
herself--almost unconsciously to the boy--her arms closed around him,
and she lifted him into her lap. There, with his head against her
breast, he concluded his story; and there were tears upon his hair,
rained from the eyes that bent above him. They sat for a long minute in
silence. Then the lady, to keep herself from bursting into hysterical
tears, kissed Harry again and again, exclaiming:

"My poor, dear boy! My dear, dear child! And Mr. Belcher could have
helped it all! Curse him!"

The lad jumped