myself, you know; but Mrs. Burton has often told
me that I was crying at the time, and appeared to have been so engaged for
some time. It was one evening in June, and getting dusk. Mr. and Mrs.
Burton had been for a walk in the country, and were returning home, when
they came upon me, walking very slowly, poking my fists into my eyes, and
crying, as I said. When they asked me what was the matter, I couldn't tell
them much. I seemed to be trying to say something about a 'bad woman,' and
my 'daddy.' They couldn't even make out, with certainty, what I said my
name was. Little as you might think it, Mr. Horn. I was a very bad talker
in those days. 'Mary Ann Owen' was what my kind friends thought I called
myself; and 'Mary Ann Owen' I have been ever since.

"Well, these dear people took me home; and, after they had washed me, and
found some clothes for me which had belonged to a little girl they had
lost--their only child--they gave me a good basin of bread and milk, and
put me to bed.

"The next day they tried to get me to tell them something more, but it was
no use; and as I couldn't tell them where I lived, and they didn't even
feel sure about my name, they naturally felt themselves at a loss. But I
don't think they were much troubled about that; for I believe they were
quite prepared to keep me as their own child. You see they had lost a
little one; and there was a vacant place that I expect they thought I
might fill. They did, at first, try to find out who I was. But they
altogether failed; and so, without more ado, they just made me their own
little girl. They taught me to call them 'father' and 'mother'; and they
have always been so good and kind!"

Though several points in Miss Owen's story had touched him keenly,
"Cobbler" Horn quickly regained his composure after the first start of
surprise. Feeling himself too weak to do battle with agitating thoughts,
he put aside, for the time, the importunate questions which besieged his
mind.

"Thank you," he said quietly, when the narrative was finished. "To-morrow
we will talk about it all again. I think I can go to sleep now. But will
you first, please, read a little from the dear old book."

The young girl reached a Bible which stood always on a table by the
bedside, and, turning to one of his favourite places, read, in her sweet
clear tones, words of comfort and strength. Then she bade him "good
night," and moved towards the door. But he called her back.

"Will you