She hurriedly untied the ribbon from her neck, and put it in her pocket.
"Don't talk to me any more!" she said, frowning. "You're a perfect
stranger. You have no right to speak to me."

"I guess the old woman ain't right in her head!" thought Daniel. "Must
be she's crazy!"

Poor Rachel! she felt more disconsolate than ever. There was no Daniel,
then. She had been basely imposed upon. There was no call for her to
sacrifice herself on the altar of matrimony. She ought to have been
glad, but she wasn't.

Half an hour later a drooping, disconsolate figure entered the house of
Timothy Harding.

"Why, what's the matter, Rachel?" asked Martha, who noticed her
woe-begone expression.

"I ain't long for this world," said Rachel, gloomily. "Death has marked
me for his own."

"Don't you feel well this afternoon, Rachel?"

"No; I feel as if life was a burden."

"You have tired yourself with walking, Rachel. You have been out twice
to-day."

"This is a vale of tears," said Rachel, hysterically. "There's nothin'
but sorrow and misfortune to be expected."

"Have you met with any misfortune? I thought fortune was smiling upon us
all."

"It'll never smile on me again," said Rachel, despondently.

Just then Jack, who had followed his aunt home, entered.

"Have you got home so quick, Aunt Rachel?" he asked. "How did you enjoy
your walk?"

"I shall never enjoy anything again," said his aunt, gloomily.

"Why not?"

"Because there's nothing to enjoy."

"I don't feel so, aunt. I feel as merry as a cricket."

"You won't be long. Like as not you'll be took down with fever
to-morrow, and maybe die."

"I won't trouble myself about it till the time comes," said Jack. "I
expect to live to dance at your wedding yet, Aunt Rachel."

This reference was too much. It brought to Rachel's mind the Daniel to
whom she had expected to link her destiny, and she burst into a dismal
sob, and hurried upstairs to her own chamber.

"Rachel acts queerly to-day," said Mrs. Harding. "I think she can't be
feeling well. If she don't feel better to-morrow I shall advise her to
send for the doctor."

"I am afraid it was mean to play such a trick on Aunt Rachel," thought
Jack, half repentantly. "I didn't think she'd take it so much in
earnest. I must keep dark about that letter. She'd never forgive me if
she knew."

For some days there was an added gloom on Miss Rachel's countenance, but
the wound was not deep; and after a time her disappointment ceased to
rankle in her too sensitive heart.




CHAPTER XII

SEVEN YEARS


Seven years slipped by unmarked by any important change. The Hardings
were still prosperous in an humble way. The cooper had been able to
obtain work most of the time, and this, with the annual remittance for
little Ida, had enabled the family not only to live in comfort, but even
to save up one hundred and fifty dollars a year. They might even have
saved more, living as frugally as they were accustomed to do, but there
was one point in which they would none of them consent to be economical.
The little Ida must have everything she wanted. Timothy brought home
nearly every day some little delicacy for her, which none of the rest
thought of sharing. While Mrs. Harding, far enough from vanity, always
dressed with extreme plainness, Ida's attire was always of good material
and made up tastefully.

Sometimes the little girl asked: "Mother, why don't you buy yourself
some of the pretty things you get for me?"

Mrs. Harding would answer, smiling: "Oh, I'm an old woman, Ida. Plain
things are best for me."

"No, I'm sure you're not old, mother. You don't wear a cap. Aunt Rachel
is a good deal older than you."

"Hush, Ida. Don't let Aunt Rachel hear that. She wouldn't like it."

"But she is ever so much older than you, mother," persisted the child.

Once Rachel heard a remark of this kind, and perhaps it was that that
prejudiced her against Ida. At any rate, she was not one of those who
indulged her. Frequently she rebuked her for matters of no importance;
but it was so well understood in the cooper's household that this was
Aunt Rachel's way, that Ida did not allow it to trouble her, as the
lightest reproach from Mrs. Harding would have done.

Had Ida been an ordinary child, all this petting would have had an
injurious effect upon her mind. But, fortunately, she had the rare
simplicity, young as she was, which lifted her above the dangers which
might have spoiled her otherwise. Instead of being made vain and
conceited, she only felt grateful for the constant kindness shown her by
her father and mother, and brother Jack, as she was wont to call them.
Indeed it had not been thought best to let her know that such were not
the actual relations in which they stood to her.

There was one point, much more important than dress, in which Ida
profited by the indulgence of her friends.

"Martha," the cooper was wont to say, "Ida is a sacred charge in our
hands. If we allow her to grow up ignorant, or only allow her ordinary
advantages, we shall not fulfill our duty. We have the means, through
Providence, of giving her some of those advantages which she would enjoy
if she had remained in that sphere to which her parents doubtless
belong. Let no unwise parsimony on our part withhold them from her."

"You are right, Timothy," said his wife; "right, as you always are.
Follow the dictates of your own heart, and fear not that I shall
disapprove."

"Humph!" said Aunt Rachel; "you ain't actin' right, accordin' to my way
of thinkin'. Readin', writin' and cypherin' was enough for girls to
learn in my day. What's the use of stuffin' the girl's head full of
nonsense that'll never do her no good? I've got along without it, and I
ain't quite a fool."

But the cooper and his wife had no idea of restricting Ida's education
to the rather limited standard indicated by Rachel. So, from the first,
they sent her to a carefully selected private school, where she had the
advantage of good associates, and where her progress was astonishingly
rapid.

Ida early displayed a remarkable taste for drawing. As soon as this was
discovered, her adopted parents took care that she should have abundant
opportunity for cultivating it. A private master was secured, who gave
her lessons twice a week, and boasted everywhere of the progress made by
his charming young pupil.

"What's the good of it?" asked Rachel. "She'd a good deal better be
learnin' to sew and knit."

"All in good time," said Timothy. "She can attend to both."

"I never wasted my time that way," said Rachel. "I'd be ashamed to."

Nothing could exceed Timothy's gratification, when, on his birthday, Ida
presented him with a beautifully drawn sketch of his wife's placid and
benevolent face.

"When did you do it, Ida?" he asked, after earnest expressions of
admiration.

"I did it in odd minutes," she answered, "when I had nothing else to
do."

"But how could you do it, without any of us knowing what you were
about?"

"I had a picture before me, and you thought I was copying it, but,
whenever I could do it without being noticed, I looked up at mother as
she sat at her sewing, and so, after a while, I finished the picture."

"And a fine one it is," said the cooper, admiringly.

Mrs. Harding insisted that Ida had flattered her, but this Ida would not
admit.

"I couldn't make it look as good as you, mother," she said. "I tried,
but somehow I didn't succeed as I wanted to."

"You wouldn't have that difficulty with Aunt Rachel," said Jack,
roguishly.

Ida could not help smiling, but Rachel did not smile.

"I see," she said, with severe resignation, "that you've taken to
ridiculing your poor aunt again. But it's only what I expect. I don't
never expect any consideration in this house. I was born to be a martyr,
and I expect I shall fulfill my destiny. If my own relations laugh at
me, of course I can't expect anything better from other folks. But I
shan't be long in the way. I've had a cough for some time past, and I
expect I'm in consumption."

"You make too much of a little joke, Rachel," said the cooper,
soothingly. "I'm sure Jack didn't mean anything."

"What I said was complimentary," said Jack.

Rachel shook her head incredulously.

"Yes, it was. Ask Ida. Why won't you draw Aunt Rachel, Ida? I think
she'd make a very striking picture."

"So I will," said Ida, hesitatingly, "if she will let me."

"Now, Aunt Rachel, there's a chance for you," said Jack. "Take my
advice, and improve it. When it's finished it can be hung up in the Art
Rooms, and who knows but you may secure a husband by it."

"I wouldn't marry," said Rachel, firmly compressing her lips; "not if
anybody'd go down on their knees to me."

"Now, I'm sure, Aunt Rachel, that's cruel of you," said Jack, demurely.

"There ain't any man I'd trust my happiness to," pursued the spinster.

"She hasn't any to trust," observed Jack, _sotto voce_.

"Men are all deceivers," continued Rachel, "the best of 'em. You can't
believe what one of 'em says. It would be a great deal better if people
never married at all."

"Then where would the world be a hundred years hence?" suggested her
nephew.

"Come to an end, most likely," answered Aunt Rachel; "and I'm not sure
but that would be the best thing. It's growing more and more wicked
every day."

It will be seen that no great change has come over Miss Rachel Harding,
during the years that have intervened. She takes the same disheartening
view of human nature and the world's prospects as ever. Nevertheless,
her own hold upon the world seems as strong as ever. Her appetite
continues remarkably good, and, although she frequently expresses
herself to the effect that there is little use in living, she would be
as unwilling to leave the world as anyone. It is not impossible that she
derives as much enjoyment from her melancholy as other people from their
cheerfulness. Unfortunately her peculiar mode of enjoying herself is
calculated to have rather a depressing influence upon the spirits of
those with whom she comes in contact--always excepting Jack, who has a
lively sense of the ludicrous, and never enjoys himself better than in
bantering his aunt.

"I don't expect to live more'n a week," said Rachel, one day. "My sands
of life are 'most run out."

"Are you sure of that, Aunt Rachel?" asked Jack.

"Yes, I've got a presentiment that it's so."

"Then, if you're sure of it," said her nephew, gravely, "it may be as
well to order the coffin in time. What style would you prefer?"

Rachel retreated to her room in tears, exclaiming that he needn't be in
such a hurry to get her out of the world; but she came down to supper,
and ate with her usual appetite.

Ida is no less a favorite with Jack than with the rest of the household.
Indeed, he has constituted himself her especial guardian. Rough as he is
in the playground, he is always gentle with her. When she was just
learning to walk, and in her helplessness needed the constant care of
others, he used, from choice, to relieve his mother of much of the task
of amusing the child. He had never had a little sister, and the care of
a child as young as Ida was a novelty to him. It was perhaps this very
office of guardian to the child, assumed when she was young, that made
him feel ever after as if she were placed under his special protection.

Ida was equally attached to Jack. She learned to look to him for
assistance in any plan she had formed, and he never disappointed her.
Whenever he could, he would accompany her to school, holding her by the
hand, and, fond as he was of rough play, nothing would induce him to
leave her.

"How long have you been a nursemaid?" asked a boy older than himself,
one day.

Jack's fingers itched to get hold of his derisive questioner, but he had
a duty to perform, and he contented himself with saying: "Just wait a
few minutes, and I'll let you know."

"I dare say you will," was the reply. "I rather think I shall have to
wait till both of us are gray before that time."

"You will not have to wait long before you are black and blue," retorted
Jack.

"Don't mind what he says, Jack," whispered Ida, fearing that he would
leave her.

"Don't be afraid, Ida; I won't leave you. I'll attend to his business
another time. I guess he won't trouble us to-morrow."

Meanwhile the boy, emboldened by Jack's passiveness, followed, with more
abuse of the same sort. If he had been wiser, he would have seen a storm
gathering in the flash of Jack's eye; but he mistook the cause of his
forbearance.

The next day, as they were going to school, Ida saw the same boy dodging
round the corner with his head bound up.

"What's the matter with him, Jack?" she asked.

"I licked him like blazes, that's all," said Jack, quietly. "I guess
he'll let us alone after this."

Even after Jack left school, and got a position in a store at two
dollars a week, he gave a large part of his spare time to Ida.

"Really," said Mrs. Harding, "Jack is as careful of Ida as if he was her
guardian."

"A pretty sort of a guardian he is!" said Aunt Rachel. "Take my word for
it, he's only fit to lead her into mischief."

"You do him injustice, Rachel. Jack is not a model boy, but he takes the
best care of Ida."

Rachel shrugged her shoulders, and sniffed significantly. It was quite
evident that she did not have a very favorable opinion of her nephew.




CHAPTER XIII

A MYSTERIOUS VISITOR


About eleven o'clock one forenoon Mrs. Harding was in the kitchen,
busily engaged in preparing the dinner, when a loud knock was heard at
the front door.

"Who can it be?" said Mrs. Harding. "Aunt Rachel, there's somebody at
the door; won't you be kind enough to see who it is?"

"People have no business to call at such an hour in the morning,"
grumbled Rachel, as she laid down her knitting reluctantly, and rose
from her seat. "Nobody seems to have any consideration for anybody else.
But that's the way of the world."

Opening the outer door, she saw before her a tall woman, dressed in a
gown of some dark stuff, with strongly marked, and not altogether
pleasant, features.

"Are you the lady of the house?" inquired the visitor, abruptly.

"There ain't any ladies in this house," answered Rachel. "You've come to
the wrong place. We have to work for a living here."

"The woman of the house, then," said the stranger, rather impatiently.
"It doesn't make any difference about names. Are you the one I want to
see?"

"No, I ain't," said Rachel, shortly.

"Will you tell your mistress that I want to see her, then?"

"I have no mistress," said Rachel. "What do you take me for?"

"I thought you might be the servant, but that don't matter. I want to
see Mrs. Harding. Will you call her, or shall I go and announce myself?"

"I don't know as she'll see you. She's busy in the kitchen."

"Her business can't be as important as what I've come about. Tell her
that, will you?"

Rachel did not fancy the stranger's tone or manner. Certainly she did
not manifest much politeness. But the spinster's curiosity was excited,
and this led her the more readily to comply with the request.

"Stay here, and I'll call her," she said.

"There's a woman wants to see you," announced Rachel.

"Who is it?"

"I don't know. She hasn't got any manners, that's all I know about her."

Mrs. Harding presented herself at the door.

"Won't you come in?" she asked.

"Yes, I will. What I've got to say to you may take some time."

Mrs. Harding, wondering vaguely what business this strange visitor could
have with her, led the way to the sitting room.

"You have in your family," said the woman, after seating herself, "a
girl named Ida."

Mrs. Harding looked up suddenly and anxiously. Could it be that the
secret of Ida's birth was to be revealed at last? Was it possible that
she was to be taken from her?

"Yes," she answered, simply.

"Who is not your child?"

"But I love her as much. I have always taught her to look upon me as her
mother."

"I presume so. My visit has reference to her."

"Can you tell me anything of her parentage?" inquired Mrs. Harding,
eagerly.

"I was her nurse," said the stranger.

Mrs. Harding scrutinized anxiously the hard features of the woman. It
was, at least, a relief to know that no tie of blood connected her with
Ida, though, even upon her assurance, she would hardly have believed it.

"Who were her parents?"

"I am not permitted to tell."

Mrs. Harding looked disappointed.

"Surely," she said, with a sudden sinking of the heart, "you have not
come to take her away?"

"This letter will explain my object in visiting you," said the woman,
drawing a sealed envelope from a bag which she carried in her hand.

The cooper's wife nervously broke open the letter, and read as follows:

"MRS. HARDING: Seven years ago last New Year's night a child was
left on your doorsteps, with a note containing a request that you
would care for it kindly as your own. Money was sent at the same
time to defray the expenses of such care. The writer of this note
is the mother of the child, Ida. There is no need to explain here
why I sent away the child from me. You will easily understand that
it was not done willingly, and that only the most imperative
necessity would have led me to such a step. The same necessity
still prevents me from reclaiming my child, and I am content still
to leave Ida in your charge. Yet there is one thing I desire. You
will understand a mother's wish to see, face to face, her own
child. With this view I have come to this neighborhood. I will not
say where I am, for concealment is necessary to me. I send this
note by a trustworthy attendant, Mrs. Hardwick, my little Ida's
nurse in her infancy, who will conduct Ida to me, and return her
again to you. Ida is not to know who she is visiting. No doubt she
believes you to be her mother, and it is well that she should so
regard you. Tell her only that it is a lady, who takes an interest
in her, and that will satisfy her childish curiosity. I make this
request as IDA'S MOTHER."


Mrs. Harding read this letter with mingled feelings. Pity for the
writer; a vague curiosity in regard to the mysterious circumstances
which had compelled her to resort to such a step; a half feeling of
jealousy, that there should be one who had a claim to her dear, adopted
daughter, superior to her own; and a strong feeling of relief at the
assurance that Ida was not to be permanently removed--all these feelings
affected the cooper's wife.

"So you were Ida's nurse?" she said, gently.

"Yes, ma'am," said the stranger. "I hope the dear child is well?"

"Perfectly well. How much her mother must have suffered from the
separation!"

"Indeed you may say so, ma'am. It came near to breaking her heart."

"I don't wonder," said sympathizing Mrs. Harding. "I can judge of that
by my own feelings. I don't know what I should do, if Ida were to be
taken from me."

At this point in the conversation, the cooper entered the house. He had
come home on an errand.

"It is my husband," said Mrs. Harding, turning to her visitor, by way of
explanation. "Timothy, will you come here a moment?"

The cooper regarded the stranger with some surprise. His wife hastened
to introduce her as Mrs. Hardwick, Ida's old nurse, and placed in her
husband's hands the letter which we have already read.

He was not a rapid reader, and it took him some time to get through the
letter. He laid it down on his knee, and looked thoughtful.

"This is indeed unexpected," he said, at last. "It is a new development
in Ida's history. May I ask, Mrs. Hardwick, if you have any further
proof? I want to be careful about a child that I love as my own. Can you
furnish any other proof that you are what you represent?"

"I judged that the letter would be sufficient. Doesn't it speak of me as
the nurse?"

"True; but how can we be sure that the writer is Ida's mother?"

"The tone of the letter, sir. Would anybody else write like that?"

"Then you have read the letter?" asked the cooper, quickly.

"It was read to me before I set out."

"By whom?"

"By Ida's mother. I do not blame you for your caution," said the
visitor. "You must be deeply interested in the happiness of the dear
child, of whom you have taken such excellent care. I don't mind telling
you that I was the one who left her at your door, seven years ago, and
that I never left the neighborhood until I saw you take her in."

"And it was this that enabled you to find the house to-day?"

"You forget," corrected the nurse, "that you were not then living in
this house, but in another, some rods off, on the left-hand side of the
street."

"You are right," said Timothy. "I am inclined to believe in the truth of
your story. You must pardon my testing you in such a manner, but I was
not willing to yield up Ida, even for a little time, without feeling
confident of the hands she was falling into."

"You are right," said Mrs. Hardwick. "I don't blame you in the least. I
shall report it to Ida's mother as a proof of your attachment to the
child."

"When do you wish Ida to go with you?" asked Mrs. Harding.

"Can you let her go this afternoon?"

"Why," said the cooper's wife, hesitating, "I should like to have a
chance to wash out some clothes for her. I want her to appear as neat as
possible when she meets her mother."

The nurse hesitated, but presently replied: "I don't wish to hurry you.
If you will let me know when she will be ready, I will call for her."

"I think I can get her ready early to-morrow morning."

"That will answer. I will call for her then."

The nurse rose, and gathered her shawl about her.

"Where are you going, Mrs. Hardwick?" asked the cooper's wife.

"To a hotel," was the reply.

"We cannot allow that," said Mrs. Harding, kindly. "It's a pity if we
cannot accommodate Ida's old nurse for one night, or ten times as long,
for that matter."

"My wife is quite right," said the cooper, hesitatingly. "We must insist
on your stopping with us."

The nurse hesitated, and looked irresolute. It was plain she would have
preferred to be elsewhere, but a remark which Mrs. Harding made, decided
her to accept the invitation.

It was this: "You know, Mrs. Hardwick, if Ida is to go with you, she
ought to have a little chance to get acquainted with you before you go."

"I will accept your kind invitation," she said; "but I am afraid I shall
be in your way."

"Not in the least. It will be a pleasure to us to have you here. If you
will excuse me now, I will go out and attend to my dinner, which I am
afraid is getting behindhand."

Left to herself, the nurse behaved in a manner which might be regarded
as singular. She rose from her seat, and approached the mirror. She took
a full survey of herself as she stood there, and laughed a short, hard
laugh. Then she made a formal courtesy to her own reflection, saying:
"How do you do, Mrs. Hardwick?"

"Did you speak?" asked the cooper, who was passing through the entry on
his way out.

"No," answered the nurse, rather awkwardly. "I may have said something
to myself. It's of no consequence."

"Somehow," thought the cooper, "I don't fancy the woman's looks; but I
dare say I am prejudiced. We're all of us as God made us."

When Mrs. Harding was making preparations for the noonday meal, she
imparted to Rachel the astonishing information which has already been
detailed to the reader.

"I don't believe a word of it," said Rachel, resolutely. "The woman's an
impostor. I knew she was, the very minute I set eyes on her."

This remark was so characteristic of Rachel, that her sister-in-law did
not attach any special importance to it. Rachel, of course, had no
grounds for the opinion she so confidently expressed. It was consistent,
however, with her general estimate of human nature.

"What object could she have in inventing such a story?" asked Mrs.
Harding.

"What object? Hundreds of 'em," said Rachel, rather indefinitely. "Mark
my words; if you let her carry off Ida, it'll be the last you'll ever
see of her."

"Try to look on the bright side, Rachel. Nothing is more natural than
that her mother should want to see her."

"Why couldn't she come herself?" muttered Rachel.

"The letter explains."

"I don't see that it does."