ther John," observed Edward,
as he closed his narrative, "that I could not well have acted otherwise;
you would not yourself."

"Humph! I don't know that; but this I do know, that you had better have
stayed at home!"

"Perhaps so, considering the forlorn prospects of the child; but we must
not judge. The same Providence which willed that she should be so
miraculously saved also willed that I should be her protector;--why
otherwise did the dog lay her at my feet?"

"Because it had been taught to 'fetch and carry,' I suppose: but however,
brother Edward, I have no right to question your conduct. If the girl is as
good as she is pretty, why all the better for her; but, as I am rather
busy, let me ask if you have any more to say to me?"

"I have, John; and the discourse we have had is preliminary. I am here with
a child, forced upon me I may say, but still as dear to me as if she were
mine own. You must be aware that I have nothing but my pension and half-pay
to subsist upon. I can save nothing. My health is undermined and my life
precarious. Last winter I never expected to quit my bed again; and, as I
lay in it, the thought naturally occurred of the forlorn and helpless state
in which this poor little girl would be in case of my decease. In a lonely
cottage, without money--without family or friends to apply to--without
anyone near her being made acquainted with her unfortunate history, what
would have become of her? It was this reflection which determined me, if my
life was spared, as soon as my health would permit, to come to you, the
only relative I was certain of still having in the world, that I might
acquaint you with her existence, and, with her history, confide to you the
few articles of dress which she wore when rescued, and which may eventually
lead to her recognition--a case of extreme doubt and difficulty, I grant;
but the ways of Providence are mysterious, and her return to the arms of
her friends will not be more wonderful than her preservation on that
dreadful night. Brother! I never have applied to you in my own behalf,
although conscious how ample are your means--and I never will; but I do now
plead in favour of this dear child. Worn out as I am, my pilgrimage on
earth can be but short; and if you would smooth the pillow of a dying
brother, promise him now that you will extend your bounty to this poor
orphan, when I'm no more!"

Edward Forster's voice was tremulous at the close of his appeal, and his
b