All unconscious of this close scrutiny, Dorothy watched the little one with wondering eyes all the way until she reached the metropolis.

Her first idea was to seek a boarding place, and then she could look about her.

To her dismay, among the half score to which she walked until she could almost drop down from exhaustion, no one cared to take her and the child in; and it seemed to her, too, that they were rude in refusing her, and more than one actually shut the door in her face.

She was tired--so tired--carrying the heavy child in her arms. She had given the name Miss Brown to each instance, and at last one landlady came out bluntly and said to her:

"It would sound a deal more proper to call yourself Mrs. Brown, if you please, ma'am," at the same time pointing to the child in her arms.

Then it dawned upon Dorothy's mind why every one had refused them shelter, even for money.

"Why shouldn't I call myself Mrs. instead of Miss Brown? One name is as good as another," she said to herself. It was all the same to her; anything, so that she would not be separated from this poor little baby, whom she had learned to love in those short hours with all the strength of her yearning heart.

At the next boarding house, recklessly enough, Dorothy gave the name of Mrs. Brown, and she found no trouble in securing accommodations there.

"Poor child! she seems so young to be left a widow!" exclaimed the landlady, in relating to her other boarders that night that she had let room sixteen to such a pretty young woman, with the loveliest little angel of a baby that ever was born.

No one ever yet took a false position without finding himself ere long hedged in with difficulties.

And so poor Dorothy found it.

She was continually plied with questions by the rest of the boarders as to how long since her husband had died, and how long since she had taken off mourning, or if she had put on mourning at all for him, and if baby reminded her of its poor, dear, dead papa.

Dorothy's alarm at this can more readily be imagined than described. She almost felt like bursting into a flood of tears and running from the room.

It had gone so far now that she was ashamed to tell the truth; and then there was the terrible fear that if people knew it was not her very own they would take it from her; and she had learned to love it with all the fondness of her desperate, lonely heart.

And then, too, it seemed to know her and feel sorry for her.

It knew her, and would coo to her, and cry for her to take it.

She had named it, long since, little Pearl, because she had fished it from the water. But, to tell the truth, she found it a terrible responsibility on her hands.

She did not know what to do with the child.

She could not go out and leave it in the house, and she couldn't take it with her.

She had been searching for a situation the last few days, and, to her unspeakable horror, she found that no one wanted a young woman enc.u.mbered with a child.

Had she been older, she would have known better than to have a.s.sumed such a responsibility; but Dorothy was young, and had some of life's bitterest lessons yet to learn.

Dorothy had turned her face resolutely against the fortune which Doctor Bryan had left.

She quite believed, if she was not there to receive it, it would go to Kendal, her faithless lover.

She wanted him to have it. She did not care for any of it.

She had been only a working girl when Doctor Bryan sought her out and took her to his home; she could be only a working girl again.

CHAPTER XXVII.

In the hour of Dorothy's desolation her heart went back to Jack Garner, who had loved her so in other days. Poor Jack! whom she had thrown over so cruelly for a handsomer, wealthier fellow, only to be deserted by him in turn for the first pretty face that had crossed his path.

And that very day came the turning point of her life.

She had answered an advertis.e.m.e.nt a few days before by letter to an intelligence office, and in the course of a week she received the following reply:

"MY DEAR MADAM--Replying to your note, would say your communication was hardly explicit enough for us to determine whether you would suit our patron or not.

"The party we refer to is Mrs. Garner, a widow. Her family consists of one son, a niece who lives with them, and a young lady.

"They wish a companion for Mrs. Garner. She requires a somewhat elderly woman. Even the child would not be so objectionable, if the right person were secured."

The letter dropped from Dorothy's hand, and she uttered a low cry; but presently picking it up, and reading it eagerly through again, she found a postscript added to it which read as follows:

"Call, if you please, at the Garner homestead to-morrow, at 10:30 A. M., if convenient."

Dorothy's heart beat quickly. Could it be possible that this Garner family and the one she had known were one and the same? Oh, no! it could not be, for they were poor, very poor, and these people lived in a fashionable quarter.

Jack might plod along all his life and never have a dollar ahead. Poor Jack! And her eyes grew moist as she thought of him. Ah, how well he had loved her!

Dorothy knew quite well that according to the requirements of the advertiser she would not suit on account of her youth. An older person than herself was wanted; yet the thought of the possibility of taking little Pearl with her caused her to ponder over the matter very carefully. Surely there was _some_ way to meet the difficulty.

"I am afraid I will not get the situation I was telling you of last night," said Dorothy to her landlady; and she told her why.

"Youth and beauty, although the greatest blessings Heaven can give us, often bring with them a certain train of disadvantages. I once knew a young and most lovely girl who, on this very account, could not get work. She resorted to a desperate measure, but it insured success.

Perhaps it might in _your_ case. She put on, over her golden curls, a dark wig with plenty of gray in it, seamed a wrinkle or two under her long lashes with a camel's hair pencil, and put on a pair of gla.s.ses.

She secured a position as housekeeper in an eccentric old bachelor's family, which consisted of only himself and his aged parents. Well, the old folks soon pa.s.sed away, the old bachelor soon following them, and every dollar he had on earth he left to his housekeeper, to 'keep her from the poor house to which she would soon have to go in her old age,'

as he phrased it. It was a large fortune, and she is enjoying it to-day with a young husband and dear little children gathered about her, and she often speaks of it when I see her, and tells me all her good luck came from putting on that wig, donning the spectacles, and lining her face to make it look old. She never would have gained that position otherwise, for she was very fair and childish in appearance."

"I think I will do the same thing!" cried Dorothy, enthusiastically. "It can do no harm, anyway. It is a terrible deceit to practice, but if I secure the position, and the people learn to like me, in a very short time I will reveal the truth to them, and I think they will find pardon for me and keep me in their employ."

"I am sure they will," a.s.sented her companion, "and all I can say is, I hope you may have as great good luck as the girl I told you about."

Dorothy smiled faintly.

"I--I would never care to be--be rich," she faltered. "There are some people whom Heaven intended to always work for a living--I am one of them."

"If you think of buying a wig, I have one to sell you," said the landlady. "I used to be in the theatrical business, and had all those things. I will show you how to make up for a middle-aged woman, so that even your own folks wouldn't know you in broad daylight."

Dorothy was a little dubious upon hearing all this. She wondered if it was not to sell the outfit that the landlady had suggested all this.

However, she pa.s.sively placed herself in her hands, and the work of transformation began.

"Now, look!" exclaimed the landlady, at length. "What do you think of yourself now?" and she placed a hand gla.s.s before her.