* I pity her, I blame her, and am her support.

AND now Alice felt that she was on the wide world alone, with her child—no longer to be protected, but to protect; and after the first few days of agony, a new spirit, not indeed of hope, but of endurance, passed within her. Her solitary wanderings, with God her only guide, had tended greatly to elevate and confirm her character. She felt a strong reliance on His mysterious mercy—she felt, too, the responsibility of a mother. Thrown for so many months upon her own resources, even for the bread of life, her intellect was unconsciously sharpened, and a habit of patient fortitude had strengthened a nature originally clinging and femininely soft. She resolved to pass into some other county, for she could neither bear the thoughts that haunted the neighbourhood around her, nor think, without a loathing horror, of the possibility of her father’s return. Accordingly, one day, she renewed her wanderings—and after a week’s travel, arrived at a small village. Charity is so common in England, it so spontaneously springs up everywhere, like the good seed by the roadside, that she had rarely wanted the bare necessaries of existence. And her humble manner, and sweet, well-tuned voice, so free from the professional whine of mendicancy, had usually its charm for the sternest. So she generally obtained enough to buy bread and a night’s lodging, and, if sometimes she failed, she could bear hunger, and was not afraid of creeping into some shed, or, when by the sea-shore, even into some sheltering cavern. Her child throve too—for God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb! But now, so far as physical privation went, the worst was over.

It so happened that as Alice was drawing herself wearily along to the entrance of the village which was to bound her day’s journey, she was met by a lady, past middle age, in whose countenance compassion was so visible, that Alice would not beg, for she had a strange delicacy or pride, or whatever it may be called, and rather begged of the stern than of those who looked kindly at her—she did not like to lower herself in the eyes of the last.

The lady stopped.

“My poor girl, where are you going?”

“Where God pleases, madam,” said Alice.

“Humph! and is that your own child?—you are almost a child yourself.”

“It is mine, madam,” said Alice, gazing fondly at the infant; “it is my all!”

The lady’s voice faltered. “Are you married?” she asked.

“Married!—Oh, no, madam!” replied Alice, innocently, yet without blushing, for she never knew that she had done wrong in loving Maltravers.

The lady drew gently back, but not in horror—no, in still deeper compassion; for that lady had virtue, and she knew that the faults of her sex are sufficiently punished to permit Virtue to pity them without a sin.

“I am sorry for it,” she said, however, with greater gravity. “Are you travelling to seek the father?”

“Ah, madam! I shall never see him again!” And Alice wept.

“What!—he has abandoned you—so young, so beautiful!” added the lady to herself.

“Abandoned me!—no, madam; but it is a long tale. Good evening—I thank you kindly for your pity.”

The lady’s eyes ran over.

“Stay,” said she; “tell me frankly where you are going, and what is your object.”

“Alas! madam, I am going anywhere, for I have no home; but I wish to live, and work for my living, in order that my child may not want for anything. I wish I could maintain myself—he used to say I could.”

“He!—your language and manner are not those of a peasant. What can you do? What do you know?”

“Music, and work, and—and—”

“Music!—this is strange! What were your parents?”

Alice shuddered, and hid her face with her hands.

The lady’s interest was now fairly warmed in her behalf.

“She has sinned,” said she to herself; “but at that age, how can one be harsh? She must not be thrown upon the world to make sin a habit. Follow me,” she said, after a little pause; “and think you have found a friend.”

The lady then turned from the high-road down a green lane which led to a park lodge. This lodge she entered; and after a short conversation with the inmate, beckoned to Alice to join her.

“Janet,” said Alice’s new protector to a comely and pleasant-eyed woman, “this is the young person—you will show her and the infant every attention. I shall send down proper clothing for her to-morrow, and I shall then have thought what will be best for her future welfare.”

With that the lady smiled benignly upon Alice, whose heart was too full to speak; and the door of the cottage closed upon her, and Alice thought the day had grown darker.