fore. Miss Vane knew her by sight, but she had imagined that
the child had been taken away from the village by friends, or sent to
the workhouse by the authorities. It was a shock to her to find the
little creature at the park gates of Beechfield Hall.

Enid did not seem to be embarrassed by her aunt's call. She ran up to
her at once, dragging the ragged child with her by the hand. Her face
was anxious and puzzled.

"Oh, aunt Leo," she said, "this little girl has nowhere to go to--no
home--no anything!"

"Let her hand go, Enid!" said aunt Leo, with some severity. "You have no
business to be out here in the road, talking to children whom you know
nothing about."

Enid shrank a little, but she did not drop the child's hand.

"But, aunt Leo, she is hungry and----"

"Were you begging of this young lady?" Miss Vane said magisterially, her
eyes bent full on the ragged girl's dark face.

But Andrew Westwood's daughter would not speak.

"I'll talk to her," said Hubert, in a low tone. "You take Enid back to
the house, aunt Leo, and I'll send the child about her business."

"No, no; you'll miss your train. It is time for you to go. Enid can run
back to the house by herself. Go, Enid!"

"Why may I not speak to the little girl too?" said Enid wistfully. It
was not often that she was rebellious, but her face worked now as if she
were going to cry.

"Never mind why--do as I tell you!" cried Miss Vane, who was growing
exasperated by the pain and difficulty of the situation, "I will see
what she wants."

Enid hesitated for a moment, then flung herself impetuously upon Hubert.

"Won't you help her?" she said, looking up into his face with sweet
entreaty. "I am sure you will be kind. The poor little girl has had
nothing to eat all day--I asked her. You will be kind to her, for you
are always kind."

Hubert pressed her to him without speaking for a moment, then answered
gently--

"Both your aunt and I will be kind to her and help her, Enid--you may be
sure of that. Now run away home and leave us; we will do all we can."

For the first time, the little outcast who had excited Enid's pity broke
the silence.

"I don't want nothing; I wasn't begging, nor meaning to beg. She found
me asleep by the road and asked me if I was hungry--that was all."

"And she is hungry," said Enid, with passion, "and you don't want me to
help her. You are unkind! Here, little girl--here is my shilling; it's
the only one I've got, and it has