as of
reflection or experience. As her footprints crossing and recrossing one
another have made a labyrinth in the mire, so may her track in life have
involved itself in an intricate and unravellable tangle.

The postern-gate of the Hospital for Foundling Children opens, and a
young woman comes out. The lady stands aside, observes closely, sees
that the gate is quietly closed again from within, and follows the young
woman.

Two or three streets have been traversed in silence before she, following
close behind the object of her attention, stretches out her hand and
touches her. Then the young woman stops and looks round, startled.

"You touched me last night, and, when I turned my head, you would not
speak. Why do you follow me like a silent ghost?"

"It was not," returned the lady, in a low voice, "that I would not speak,
but that I could not when I tried."

"What do you want of me? I have never done you any harm?"

"Never."

"Do I know you?"

"No."

"Then what can you want of me?"

"Here are two guineas in this paper. Take my poor little present, and I
will tell you."

Into the young woman's face, which is honest and comely, comes a flush as
she replies: "There is neither grown person nor child in all the large
establishment that I belong to, who hasn't a good word for Sally. I am
Sally. Could I be so well thought of, if I was to be bought?"

"I do not mean to buy you; I mean only to reward you very slightly."

Sally firmly, but not ungently, closes and puts back the offering hand.
"If there is anything I can do for you, ma'am, that I will not do for its
own sake, you are much mistaken in me if you think that I will do it for
money. What is it you want?"

"You are one of the nurses or attendants at the Hospital; I saw you leave
to-night and last night."

"Yes, I am. I am Sally."

"There is a pleasant patience in your face which makes me believe that
very young children would take readily to you."

"God bless 'em! So they do."

The lady lifts her veil, and shows a face no older than the nurse's. A
face far more refined and capable than hers, but wild and worn with
sorrow.

"I am the miserable mother of a baby lately received under your care. I
have a prayer to make to you."

Instinctively respecting the confidence which has drawn aside the veil,
Sally--whose ways are all ways of simplicity and spontaneity--replaces
it, and begins to cry.

"You will listen to my prayer?" the lady