ught on something, and she nearly
stumbled. Janetta stopped also, and the two sisters uttered a sudden
cry of surprise. For what Nora had stumbled over was a wooden horse--a
child's broken toy--and deep in the bracken before them, with one hand
beneath his flushed and dimpled cheek, there lay the loveliest of all
objects--a sleeping child.

CHAPTER VII.

NORA'S NEW ACQUAINTANCE.

"He must have lost his way," said Janetta, bending over him. "Poor
little fellow!"

"He's a pretty little boy," said Nora, carelessly. "His nurse or his
mother or somebody will be near, I dare say--perhaps gone up to the
house. Shall I look about?"

"Wait a minute--he is awake--he will tell us who he is."

The child, roused by the sound of voices, turned a little, stretched
himself, then opened his great dark eyes, and fixed them full on
Janetta's face. What he saw there must have reassured him, for a dreamy
smile came to his lips, and he stretched out his little hands to her.

"You darling!" cried Janetta. "Where did you come from, dear? What is
your name?"

The boy raised himself and looked about him. He looked about five years
old, and was a remarkably fine and handsome child. It was in perfectly
clear and distinct English--almost free from any trace of baby
dialect--that he replied--

"Mammy brought me. She said I should find my father here. I don't want
my father," he remarked, decidedly.

"Who is your father? What is your name?" Nora asked.

"My name is Julian Wyvis Brand," said the little fellow, sturdily; "and
I want to know where my father lives, if you please, 'cause it'll soon
be my bed-time, and I'm getting very hungry."

Janetta and her sister exchanged glances.

"Is your father's name Wyvis Brand, too?" asked Janetta.

"Yes, same as mine," said the boy, nodding. He stood erect now, and she
noticed that his clothes, originally of fashionable cut and costly
material, were torn and stained and shabby. He had a little bundle
beside him, tied up in a gaudy shawl; and the broken toy-horse seemed to
have fallen out of it.

"But where is your mother?"

"Mammy's gone away. She told me to go and find my father at the big red
house there. I did go once; but they thought I was a beggar, and they
sent me away. I don't know what to do, I don't. I wish mammy would
come."

"Will she come soon?"

"She said no. Never, never, never. She's gone over the sea again," said
the boy, with the abstracted, meditative look wh