ailing voices. "Go! go away! there is nothing for
you; nothing! we have not more than a mouthful for ourselves. Take
yourselves away, and leave us in peace."

Rita came forward, the tears running down her cheeks. "Oh, poor things!"
she cried. "Poor souls, I want nothing. I am not hungry! See!--I have
brought food for you. Quick, Manuela, the bag--the biscuits, child! Give
them to me! Here, thou little one, take this, and eat; there is plenty
more!"

The famished child looked from the biscuit to the glowing face that bent
over it. It made a feeble movement; then drew back in fear. The old
woman still clamoured to the girls to go away; but the younger snatched
the biscuit, and began feeding the child hastily, yet carefully.
"Mother, be still!" she said, imperiously. "Hush that noise! do you not
see this is no poor wretch like ourselves? This is a noble lady come
from heaven to bring us help. Thanks, senorita!" With a quick, graceful
movement, she lifted the hem of Rita's dress and pressed it to her lips.
"We were dying!" she said, simply. "It was the last morsel; we meant to
give it to the little one, and some one might find it when we were dead,
and keep the life in it."

"But, eat; eat!" cried Rita, filling the hands of both women with
chocolate and biscuits. "It is dreadful, terrible! oh, I have heard of
it, I have read of it, but I had not seen, I had not known. Oh, if my
cousin Margaret were here, she would know what to do! Eat, my poor
starving ones. You shall never be hungry again if I can help it."

The child pulled its mother's ragged gown.

"Is it an angel?" it asked, its mouth full of chocolate.

"Hear the innocent!" said the mother. "No, lamb, not yet an angel, only
a noble lady on the road to heaven. See, senorita! he was pretty, while
his cheeks were round and full. Still, his eyes are pretty, are they
not?"

"They are lovely! he is a darling!" cried Rita; and she took the child
in her arms, and bent over him to hide the tears. Was this truly Rita
Montfort? Yes, the same Rita, only awake now, for the first time now in
her pretty idle life. She felt of the little limbs. They were mere skin
and bone; no sign of baby chubbiness, no curve or dimple. Indeed, she
had come but just in time. "Listen!" she said, presently. "Where do you
come from? where is your home?"

The old woman made a gesture as wide and vague as Rita's own of a few
minutes before. "Our home, noble lady? the wilderness is our home
to-d