A WHITE HAND AND A BLACK
THUMB.

IN THIRTEEN CHAPTERS.

CHAPTER III.

POLLY-MY-LAMB rang the bell for Mrs. Goodall,
her mother's old attendant and housekeeper,
and, pointing out the little pale figure, inquired
if she knew by whom that house was tenanted.

"It's little Arthur Haggerdorn, as I live!"
ejaculated Mrs. Goodall, holding up her hands.
"If I didn't think he was dead, poor boy, and
buried with his mother!"

She then informed her young mistress that the
house was let in lodgings. Some weeks since, a
lady and her son had arrived, it was supposed
from abroad, and had taken up their abode there.
Both—the lady especially—were suffering from
indisposition, which, after a few days, resulted
in fever of a dangerous kind, and hurried the
poor woman to her grave, whither the boy had
nearly followed her. Indeed, Mrs. Goodall, too
much occupied with the troubles at home to
keep her usual vigilant eye upon her neighbours,
imagined that he had really died.

Little or nothing was known of the pair
beyond their name, which had an outlandish sound;
but the lady having left behind her, among other
things, several rich jewels and at least a hundred
guineas in money, the worthy landlady, Mrs.
Ascroft, saw no insecurity in exercising her
kindly feelings, and had accordingly nursed the
youth, with the greatest solicitude, through his
illness, up to his then present point of
convalescence.

"If you please, miss," concluded Mrs. Goodall,
"I'll pop over presently, about tea-time, and ask
the good lady of the house something about him,
poor orphan!"

If, however, " popping over" implies speedy
return, as well as rapid movement, that portion
of the plan was not adhered to. It was nearly
three hours before Mrs. Goodall popped back.
But, then, she was, like Jacques, " full of matter."

"If you please, miss," she began, " Mrs.
Ascroft says you've been and saved his life."

"Saved his life!"

"Before he was ill, that's Arthur, he used to
make Mrs. Ascroft tell him all about our
misfortunes here. He would sit at the window,
hours together, neglecting his lessons and
everything else, and watching for you, though he
could only catch a glimpse now and then,
because you never went near the window, only
walked wild-like up and down the room. He
couldn't help crying sometimes (for you see,
miss, 'tis only a child, and weak with his long
illness), because he could do nothing for to help
and comfort you; and when at last he heard that
you was become an orphan, like himself, he went
nearly frantic. After that, he was so bad that
they thought he was going, and, to-day, he
thought so too, and made them promise that
when they knew he had only a few more hours
to live, they would prop him up in his window,
that he might see you once perfectly, if God
would give him that comfort. And, strange
enough, you did come; and, what's stranger still,
his sickness took a turn, and to-night the doctor
said if the boy's kept quiet, and soothed, and let
sleep, he will live. I went up and saw the poor
thing—what's left of him, that is. He's like the
ghost of an angel," concluded Mrs. Goodall, with
vague psychology. " Such a beautiful countenance
I never set eyes on!"

Polly-my-Lamb, said little that evening; but
her thoughts were not idle. The great purpose
of her soul stood out, strong and dominant as
ever; but a new idea had become associated
with it. This boy, with his deep sympathy, and
patient, persevering will, faithful even to the
very threshold of death—this orphan like herself,
endowed with similar resolution— might he not,
boy as he was, be the predestined instrument in
the hands of that Providence which works by
means unlooked-for by the wise, to assist her in
her filial purpose?

The little maiden's feet trembled somewhat as
they bore her, more slowly than she had ever
walked before, towards the window, on the morrow,
and for a moment she could not raise her
eyes. When she accomplished this, a warm blush
—which must have been lying in ambush, so
promptly did it appear—spread upwards to the
very roots of her auburn hair. There sat, or rather
reclined, the beautiful boy, white and wasted,
indeed, but with light and life in his eye, and a
gay smile on his parted lips, his bright glossy
hair dressed and curled as if for a holiday.

"It is a child, as Goodall said," soliloquised
Polly-my-Lamb, half amused at her own agitation