M RS. KENYON thought it best to put two hundred miles between herself and Dr.Fox. She left the cars the next morning at a town of about three thousand inhabitants, which we will call Crawford.

"Is there a hotel here?" she enquired of the depot-master.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Is it far off?"

"About three-quarters of a mile up in the village."

"Can I get a carriage to convey me there?"

"Certainly, ma'am," answered the depot-master briskly. My son drives the depot carriage. There it is, near the platform.

"Peter!" he called. "Here's a lady to go to the hotel. Have you a check for your trunk, ma'am?"

Mrs.Kenyon was rather embarrassed. She had no luggage except a small bundle which she carried in her hand, and this, she feared, might look suspicious. She had a trunk of clothing at the asylum, but of course it was out of the question to send for this.

"My luggage has been delayed," she said; "it will be sent me."

"Very well, ma'am."

Mrs.Kenyon got into the carriage and was soon landed at the hotel. It might be called rather a boarding-house than a hotel, as it could hardly accommodate more than a dozen guests. It was by no means stylish, but looked tolerably comfortable. In Mrs.Kenyon's state of mind she was not likely to care much for luxury, and she said to herself wearily:

"This will do as well as any other place."

She enquired the terms of board, and found them very reasonable. This was a relief, for she had but two hundred dollars with her, and a part of this must be expended for the replenishing of her wardrobe. This she attended to at once, and, though she studied economy, it consumed about one-half of her scanty supply.

Four weeks passed. Mrs.Kenyon found time hanging heavily upon her hands. She appeared to have no object left in life. Her boy was dead, or at least she supposed so. She had a husband, but he had proved himself her bitterest foe. She had abstained from making acquaintances, because acquaintances are apt to be curious, and she did not wish to talk of the past.

There was one exception, however. One afternoon when out walking, a pretty little girl, perhaps four years of age, ran up to her, crying:

"Take me to mamma. I'm so frightened!"

She was always fond of children, and her heart opened to the little girl.

"What is the matter, my dear?" she asked soothingly.

"I've lost my mamma," sobbed the little girl.

"How did it happen, my child?"

"I went out with nurse, and I can't find her."

By enquiry Mrs.Kenyon ascertained that the little girl had run after some flowers, while the careless nurse, not observing her absence, had gone on, and so lost her.

"What is your name, my little dear?" she asked.

"Florette."

"And what is your mamma's name?"

"Her name is mamma," answered the child, rather surprised. "Don't you know my mamma?"

Then it occurred to Mrs.Kenyon that the child was the daughter of a Mrs.Graham, a Northern visitor, who was spending some weeks with a family of relatives in the village. She had seen the little girl before, and even recalled the house where her mother was staying.

"Don't cry, Florette," she said. "I know where mamma lives. We will go and find mamma."

The little girl put her hand confidingly in that of her new friend, and they walked together, chatting pleasantly, till suddenly Florette, espying the house, clapped her tiny hands, and exclaimed joyfully:

"There's our house. There's where mamma lives."

Mrs.Graham met them at the door. Not having heard of the little girl's loss, she was surprised to see her returning in the care of a stranger.

"Mrs.Graham," said Mrs.Kenyon, "I am glad to be the means of restoring your little girl to you."

"But where is Susan—where is the nurse?" asked Mrs.Graham, bewildered.

"I lost her," said little Florette.

"I found the little girl crying," continued Mrs.Kenyon, "and fortunately learned where you were staying. She was very anxious to find her mamma."

"I am very much indebted to you," said Mrs.Graham warmly. "Let me know who has been so kind to my little girl."

"My name is Conrad, and I am boarding at the hotel," answered Mrs.Kenyon.

She had resumed the name of her first husband, not being willing to acknowledge the tie that bound her to a man that she had reason to detest.

Mrs.Graham pressed her so strongly to enter the house that she at length yielded. In truth she was longing for human sympathy and companionship. Always fond of children, the little girl attracted her, and for her sake she wished to make acquaintance with the mother.

This was the beginning of friendship between them. Afterward Mrs.Kenyon, or Conrad, as we may now call her, called, and, assuming the nurse's place, took Florette to walk. She exerted herself to amuse the child, and was repaid by her attachment.

"I wish you'd come and be my nurse," she said one day.

"I hope you will excuse Florette," said Mrs.Graham apologetically. "She is attached to you, and is too young to know of social distinctions."

"I am very much pleased to think that she cares for me," said Mrs.Conrad, looking the pleasure she felt. "Do you really like me, then, Florette?"

The answer was a caress, which was very grateful to the lonely woman.

"It does me good," she said to Mrs.Graham. "I am quite alone in the world, and treasure more than you can imagine your little girl's affection."

"I am sure she has suffered," thought Mrs.Graham, who was of a kindly, sympathetic nature. "How unhappy I should be if I, too, were alone in the world!"

Mr.Graham was a merchant in Chicago, where business detained him and prevented his joining his wife. She was only to stay a few weeks, and the time had nearly expired when little Florette was taken sick with a contagious disease. The mercenary nurse fled. Mrs.Graham's relations, also concerned for their safety, left the sorrow-stricken mother alone in the house, going to a neighboring town to remain till the danger was over. Human nature was unlovely in some of its phases, as Mrs.Graham was to find out.

But she was not without a friend in the hour of her need.

Mrs.Conrad presented herself, and said:

"I have heard of Florette's sickness, and I have come to help you."

"But do you know the danger?" asked the poor mother. "Do you know that her disease is contagious, and that you run the risk of taking it?"

"I know all, but life is not very precious to me. I love your little daughter, and I am willing to risk my life for her."

Mrs.Graham made no further opposition. In truth, she was glad and encouraged to find a friend who was willing to help her—more especially one whom the little girl loved nearly as much as herself.

So these two faithful women watched by day and by night at the bedside of little Florette, relieving each other when nature's demand for rest became imperative, and the result was that Florette was saved. The crisis was safely past, and neither contracted the disease.

When Florette was well enough, Mrs.Graham prepared to set out for her Northern home.

"How lonely I shall feel without you," exclaimed Mrs.Conrad, with a sigh.

"Then come with us," said Mrs.Graham. "Florette loves you, and after what has passed I look upon you as a sister. I have a pleasant home in Chicago, and wish you to share it."

"But I am a stranger to you, Mrs.Graham. How do you know that I am worthy?"

"The woman who has nursed my child back from death is worthy of all honor in my household."

"But your husband?"

"He knows of you through me, and we both invite you."

Mrs.Conrad made no further opposition. She had found friends. Now she had something to live for.

By a strange coincidence, she and Oliver reached Chicago the same day.