vous
tremors occasioned by what she had already seen and encountered, readily
consented to leave the matter for the present in Mr. Paulding's hands.

"If you will come here to-morrow," said the missionary, "I will tell you
all I can about the baby."

Out of a region where disease, want and crime shrunk from common
observation, and sin and death held high carnival, Edith hurried with
trembling feet, and heart beating so heavily that she could hear it
throb, the considerate missionary going with her until she had crossed
the boundary of this morally infected district.

Mr. Dinneford met Edith at the door on her arrival home.

"My child," he exclaimed as he looked into her face, back to which the
color had not returned since her fright in Briar street, "are you sick?"

"I don't feel very well;" and she tried to pass him hastily in the hall
as they entered the house together. But he laid his hand on her arm
and held her back gently, then drew her into the parlor. She sat down,
trembling, weak and faint. Mr. Dinneford waited for some moments,
looking at her with a tender concern, before speaking.

"Where have you been, my dear?" he asked, at length.

After a little hesitation, Edith told her father about her visit to
Briar street and the shock she had received.

"You were wrong," he answered, gravely. "It is most fortunate for you
that you took the child's advice and called at the mission. If you had
gone to Grubb's court alone, you might not have come out alive."

"Oh no, father! It can't be so bad as that."

"It is just as bad as that," he replied, with a troubled face and
manner. "Grubb's court is one of the traps into which unwary victims
are drawn that they may be plundered. It is as much out of common
observation almost as the lair of a wild beast in some deep wilderness.
I have heard it described by those who have been there under protection
of the police, and shudder to think of the narrow escape you have made.
I don't want you to go into that vile district again. It is no place for
such as you."

"There's a poor little baby there," said Edith, her voice trembling and
tears filling her eyes. Then, after a brief struggle with her feelings,
she threw herself upon her father, sobbing out, "And oh, father, it may
be my baby!"

"My poor child," said Mr. Dinneford, not able to keep his voice
firm--"my poor, poor child! It is all a wild dream, the suggestion of
evil spirits who delight in torment."

"What be