A Pair of Schoolgirls: A Story of School Days

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in the South; a morose-looking man with a bundle of Socialist tracts, and a middle-aged woman, who, with a baby on her knee, occupied the opposite corner. Nobody spoke a word, except an occasional necessary one about the opening or closing of a window, and all settled down to read books and papers, or to enjoy the luxury of a snooze while the train sped swiftly northwards. The baby was sleeping peacefully, its lips parted, its long lashes resting on its flushed cheeks, and one little hand flung out from under the white woolly shawl which was wrapped closely round it. It made a pretty picture as it lay thus, and Miss Sherbourne's eyes returned again and again to dwell on the soft lines of the chubby neck and dimpled chin. She was fond o

ng whether the woman were really the mother of the child, and if so, how she managed to dress it so well, and whether she realized that it

he strap to steady herself, and was debating whether it would be better to close the rattling window, when, without further warning, there came a sudden and awful crash, the impact of which hurled the baby on to her knee, and telescoped the walls of the compartment. For a few seconds she was stunned with the shock. When she recovered consciousness she found herself lying on her side under a pile of wreckage, insti

nd broke away the pieces of shivered glass till the window beneath her was free; then, still clasping the child, she managed to crawl through the opening on to the line below. So narrow was the space between the ground and the wreckage above her that she was forced to lie flat and writhe herself along. It was a slow and painful progress, and the light was so dim that she could scarcely see, while at any moment she expected to

had managed to make their escape stood by the line-some half-dazed and staring helplessly, others already attempting to rescue those who were pinned under the wreckage. The guard, his face livid and streaming with blood, was running to the nearest signal box to notify the disaster, and some labourers were hurrying from a group of cottages near, bringing an axe and a piece of rope. To the end of her

yonder out o' the wind. The men are doing a' they can, and we canna help 'em. It's no fit sight for women. Come, I tell ye! Th'

!" said Miss Barbara, as with bowed he

ith their friends. The fire, meanwhile, had done its fatal work, and little was left of any of the carriages but heaps of charred ashes. Those who had escaped comparatively unhurt had, with the aid of the few farm labourers who were near at the time, worked with frantic and almost superhuman endeavour to rescue any fellow-passengers within their reach; but they had at last been driven back by t

cause she felt responsible for the welfare of the little child whom she had been able to save. The account of its rescue was circulated in all the morning papers, so she expected that before lo

hful maid, for whom she had telegraphed. "Those to whom it belongs will be crazy with joy t

he least. Fortunately she was of a friendly disposition, and though she had had one or two good cries, she seemed fairly content to be nursed by strangers, and took readily to the bottle that was procured for her. At about six o'clock Miss Barbara and Martha sat alone with her in the inn parlour. The afternoon train had departed, bearing with it most of yesterday's suffere

el better to-morrow, and I shall leave much more comfortably when this little one has been claimed.

g and going to the window. "Somebody's getting out of it

r face was fair and pretty, though it showed signs of the strongest agitation. She was deadly pale, her eyes had a strained expression, and her lips twitched nervously. Without a wor

xiously, turning her nursling so that the lig

. "I don't know it. I can't t

spoke; her mouth was quive

his age in the accident,

spoke wildly, almost hysterically, casting swift, uneasy g

nterrogatively, for the stranger had b

to have troubled you. I must go a

don't know

cally; "not in the slightest. I tell you

good-bye; addressed a few hurried words in a low tone to the landlord in the ha

dow blind. "She was ready to take her oath that she'd never set eyes on the child before, but the sigh

arbara. "She seemed so terribly agitated and upset, she must hav

ointed at finding what she expected. Agitated and upset, no dou

led in the corner when Miss Sherbourne entered the compartment, and though a description of her was circulated, none of the porters remembered noticing her particularly. All the carriages had been full, and there had been several other women with young children in the accident. Any luggage containing papers or a

nce had given into her charge. For some months she still made an endeavour to establish its identity; she put advertisements in the newspapers and enlisted the services of the police, but all with no avail: and when a year had passed

re willing to take your share of the

"The bairn's the very sunshine of the hous

d', and it was at Greenfield that the accident occurred. I feel that Fate flung her into my arms that day,

met with considerable opp

a thing," urged her aunt. "It's absurd, at your age, to saddle yo

that obstinately refused to accept decent burial; "that will never b

t would be cruelty to the child to bring her up as

justice. I take her now, and

ll means you reall

ild herself is sufficient compensation for anyth

isfavour. "If you want companionship, you can always h

However fond they may be of me, I feel I am only a very secondary consideration in their lives. I can't be content wit

ibility of her maintenance, and to educate her in yo

and I shall never part with her unless someone should

to spend a large proportion of her scanty income on bringing up a foundling,-well, she need not expect any help from them in the matter. They ignored the child, and never asked

irl at home with Martha when she went to stay with her relations, whom she succeeded in influencing so far that she persuaded them to refrain from all allusions to Dorothy's parentage when they paid return visits to Holly Cottage. Dorothy had often wondered why Aunt Lydia and Aunt Constance treated her so stiffly, but, like most children, she divided the world into nice and nasty people, and simply included them in the latter category, without an inkling of the real reason for their coldness. That she was

sed a taste for literary work, and in the quiet village of Hurford she had been able to write undisturbed. Her articles, reviews, and short stories appeared in various magazines and papers, and by this method of adding to her income she had been able to send Dorothy to Avondale College. It was quite an easy jour