"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.
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CHAPTER XXX. HOW DR. FOX WAS FOOLED.
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CHAPTER XXXII. MR. DENTON OF CHICAGO.
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