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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."

"It says that same reasons exist for concealment as ever."

"And what are they, I should like to know? I don't like mysteries, for my part."

"We won't quarrel with them, at any rate, since they enable us to keep Ida with us."

Aunt Rachel shook her head, as if she were far from satisfied.

"I don't know," said Mrs. Harding, "but I ought to invite Mrs. Hardwick in here. I have left her alone in the front room."

"I don't want to see her," said Rachel. Then, changing her mind suddenly: "Yes, you may bring her in. I'll soon find out whether she's an impostor or not."

The cooper's wife returned with the nurse.

"Mrs. Hardwick," she said, "this is my sister, Miss Rachel Harding."

"I am glad to make your acquaintance, ma'am," said the visitor.

"Rachel, I will leave you to entertain Mrs. Hardwick, while I get ready the dinner."

Rachel and the nurse eyed each other with mutual dislike.

"I hope you don't expect me to entertain you," said Rachel. "I never expect to entertain anybody ag'in. This is a world of trial and tribulation, and I've had my share. So you've come after Ida, I hear?" with a sudden change of tone.

"At her mother's request," said the nurse.

"She wants to see her, then?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I wonder she didn't think of it before," said Rachel, sharply. "She's good at waiting. She's waited seven years."

"There are circumstances that cannot be explained," commenced the nurse.

"No, I dare say not," said Rachel, dryly. "So you were her nurse?"

"Yes, ma'am," answered the nurse, who did not appear to enjoy this cross-examination.

"Have you lived with Ida's mother ever since?"

"No—yes," stammered the stranger. "Some of the time," she added, recovering herself.

"Umph!" grunted Rachel, darting a sharp glance at her.

"Have you a husband living?" inquired the spinster.

"Yes," answered Mrs. Hardwick. "Have you?"

"I!" repeated Rachel, scornfully. "No, neither living nor dead. I'm thankful to say I never married. I've had trials enough without that. Does Ida's mother live in the city?"

"I can't tell you," said the nurse.

"Humph! I don't like mystery."

"It isn't any mystery," said the visitor. "If you have any objections to make, you must make them to Ida's mother."

"So I will, if you'll tell me where she lives."

"I can't do that."

"Where do you live yourself?" inquired Rachel, shifting her point of attack.

"In Brooklyn," answered Mrs. Hardwick, with some hesitation.

"What street, and number?"

"Why do you want to know?" inquired the nurse.

"You ain't ashamed to tell, be you?"

"Why should I be?"

"I don't know. You'd orter know better than I."

"It wouldn't do you any good to know," said the nurse. "I don't care about receiving visitors."

"I don't want to visit you, I am sure," said Rachel, tossing her head.

"Then you don't need to know where I live."

Rachel left the room, and sought her sister-in-law.

"That woman's an impostor," she said. "She won't tell where she lives. I shouldn't be surprised if she turns out to be a thief."

"You haven't any reason for supposing that, Rachel."

"Wait and see," said Rachel. "Of course I don't expect you to pay any attention to what I say. I haven't any influence in this house."

"Now, Rachel, you have no cause to say that."

But Rachel was not to be appeased. It pleased her to be considered a martyr, and at such times there was little use in arguing with her.

CHAPTER XIV
PREPARING FOR A JOURNEY

Later in the day, Ida returned from school. She bounded into the room, as usual, but stopped short in some confusion, on seeing a stranger.

"Is this my own dear child, over whose infancy I watched so tenderly?" exclaimed the nurse, rising, her harsh features wreathed into a smile.

"It is Ida," said the cooper's wife.

Ida looked from one to the other in silent bewilderment.

"Ida," said Mrs. Harding, in a little embarrassment, "this is Mrs. Hardwick, who took care of you when you were an infant."

"But I thought you took care of me, mother," said Ida, in surprise.

"Very true," said Mrs. Harding, evasively; "but I was not able to have the care of you all the time. Didn't I ever mention Mrs. Hardwick to you?"

"No, mother."

"Although it is so long since I have seen her, I should have known her anywhere," said the nurse, applying a handkerchief to her eyes. "So pretty as she's grown up, too!"

Mrs. Harding glanced with pride at the beautiful child, who blushed at the compliment, a rare one, for her adopted mother, whatever she might think, did not approve of openly praising her appearance.

"Ida," said Mrs. Hardwick, "won't you come and kiss your old nurse?"

Ida looked at her hard face, which now wore a smile intended to express affection. Without knowing why, she felt an instinctive repugnance to this stranger, notwithstanding her words of endearment.

She advanced timidly, with a reluctance which she was not wholly able to conceal, and passively submitted to a caress from the nurse.

There was a look in the eyes of the nurse, carefully guarded, yet not wholly concealed, which showed that she was quite aware of Ida's feeling toward her, and resented it. But whether or not she was playing a part, she did not betray this feeling openly, but pressed the unwilling child more closely to her bosom.

Ida breathed a sigh of relief when she was released, and moved quietly away, wondering what it was that made the woman so disagreeable to her.

"Is my nurse a good woman?" she asked, thoughtfully, when alone with Mrs. Harding, who was setting the table for dinner.

"A good woman! What makes you ask that?" queried her adopted mother, in surprise.

"I don't know," said Ida.

"I don't know anything to indicate that she is otherwise," said Mrs. Harding. "And, by the way, Ida, she is going to take you on a little excursion to-morrow."

"She going to take me!" exclaimed Ida. "Why, where are we going?"

"On a little pleasure trip; and perhaps she may introduce you to a pleasant lady, who has already become interested in you, from what she has told her."

"What could she say of me?" inquired Ida. "She has not seen me since I was a baby."

"Why," answered the cooper's wife, a little puzzled, "she appears to have thought of you ever since, with a good deal of affection."

"Is it wicked," asked Ida, after a pause, "not to like those who like us?"

"What makes you ask?"

"Because, somehow or other, I don't like this Mrs. Hardwick, at all, for all she was my old nurse, and I don't believe I ever shall."

"Oh, yes, you will," said Mrs. Harding, "when you find she is exerting herself to give you pleasure."

"Am I going with her to-morrow morning?"

"Yes. She wanted you to go to-day, but your clothes were not in order."

"We shall come back at night, shan't we?"

"I presume so."

"I hope we shall," said Ida, decidedly, "and that she won't want me to go with her again."

"Perhaps you will feel differently when it is over, and you find you have enjoyed yourself better than you anticipated."

Mrs. Harding exerted herself to fit Ida up as neatly as possible, and when at length she was got ready, she thought with sudden fear: "Perhaps her mother will not be willing to part with her again."

When Ida was ready to start, there came upon all a little shadow of depression, as if the child were to be separated from them for a year, and not for a day only. Perhaps this was only natural, since even this latter term, however brief, was longer than they had been parted from her since, in her infancy, she had been left at their door.

The nurse expressly desired that none of the family should accompany her, as she declared it highly important that the whereabouts of Ida's mother should not be known.

"Of course," she added, "after Ida returns she can tell you what she pleases. Then it will be of no consequence, for her mother will be gone. She does not live in this neighborhood. She has only come here to see her child."

"Shall you bring her back to-night?" asked Mrs. Harding.

"I may keep her till to-morrow," said the nurse. "After seven years' absence her mother will think that short enough."

To this, Mrs. Harding agreed, though she felt that she should miss Ida, though absent but twenty-four hours.

CHAPTER XV
THE JOURNEY

The nurse walked as far as Broadway, holding Ida by the hand.

"Where are we going?" asked the child, timidly. "Are you going to walk all the way?"

"No," said the nurse; "not all the way—perhaps a mile. You can walk as far as that, can't you?"

"Oh, yes."

They walked on till they reached the ferry at the foot of Courtland Street.

"Did you ever ride in a steamboat?" asked the nurse, in a tone meant to be gracious.

"Once or twice," answered Ida. "I went with Brother Jack once, over to Hoboken. Are we going there now?"

"No; we are going to the city you see over the water."

"What place is it? Is it Brooklyn?"

"No; it is Jersey City."

"Oh, that will be pleasant," said Ida, forgetting, in her childish love of novelty, the repugnance with which the nurse had inspired her.

"Yes, and that is not all; we are going still further," said the nurse.

"Are we going further?" asked Ida, in excitement. "Where are we going?"

"To a town on the line of the railroad."

"And shall we ride in the cars?" asked Ida.

"Yes; didn't you ever ride in the cars?"

"No, never."

"I think you will like it."

"And how long will it take us to go to the place you are going to carry me to?"

"I don't know exactly; perhaps three hours."

"Three whole hours in the cars! How much I shall have to tell father and Jack when I get back!"

"So you will," replied Mrs. Hardwick, with an unaccountable smile—"when you get back."

There was something peculiar in her tone, but Ida did not notice it.

She was allowed to sit next the window in the cars, and took great pleasure in surveying the fields and villages through which they were rapidly whirled.

"Are we 'most there?" she asked, after riding about two hours.

"It won't be long," said the nurse.

"We must have come ever so many miles," said Ida.

"Yes, it is a good ways."

An hour more passed, and still there was no sign of reaching their journey's end. Both Ida and her companion began to feel hungry.

The nurse beckoned to her side a boy, who was selling apples and cakes, and inquired the price.

"The apples are two cents apiece, ma'am, and the cakes are one cent each."

Ida, who had been looking out of the window, turned suddenly round, and exclaimed, in great astonishment: "Why, Charlie Fitts, is that you?"

"Why, Ida, where did you come from?" asked the boy, with a surprise equaling her own.

"I'm making a little journey with this lady," said Ida.

"So you're going to Philadelphia?" said Charlie.

"To Philadelphia!" repeated Ida, surprised. "Not that I know of."

"Why, you're 'most there now."

"Are we, Mrs. Hardwick?" inquired Ida.

"It isn't far from where we're going," she answered, shortly. "Boy, I'll take two of your apples and four cakes. And, now, you'd better go along, for there's somebody over there that looks as if he wanted to buy something."

"Who is that boy?" asked the nurse, abruptly.

"His name is Charlie Fitts."

"Where did you get acquainted with him?"

"He went to school with Jack, so I used to see him sometimes."

"With Jack?"

"Yes, Brother Jack. Don't you know him?"

"Oh, yes, I forgot. So he's a schoolmate of Jack?"

"Yes, and he's a first-rate boy," said Ida, with whom the young apple merchant was evidently a favorite. "He's good to his mother. You see, his mother is sick most of the time, and can't work much; and he's got a little sister—she ain't more than four or five years old—and Charlie supports them by selling things. He's only sixteen years old; isn't he a smart boy?"

"Yes," said the nurse, indifferently.

"Sometime," continued Ida, "I hope I shall be able to earn something for father and mother, so they won't be obliged to work so hard."

"What could you do?" asked the nurse, curiously.

"I don't know as I can do much yet," answered Ida, modestly; "but perhaps when I am older I can draw pictures that people will buy."

"Have you got any of your drawings with you?"

"No, I didn't bring any."

"I wish you had. The lady we are going to see would have liked to see some of them."

"Are we going to see a lady?"

"Yes; didn't your mother tell you?"

"Yes, I believe she said something about a lady that was interested in me."

"That's the one."

"And shall we come back to New York to-night?"

"No; it wouldn't leave us any time to stay."

"West Philadelphia!" announced the conductor.

"We have arrived," said the nurse. "Keep close to me. Perhaps you had better take hold of my hand."

As they were making their way slowly through the crowd, the young apple merchant came up with his basket on his arm.

"When are you going back, Ida?" he asked.

"Mrs. Hardwick says not till to-morrow."

"Come, Ida," said the nurse, sharply. "I can't have you stopping all day to talk. We must hurry along."

"Good-by, Charlie," said Ida. "If you see Jack, just tell him you saw me."

"Yes, I will," was the reply.

"I wonder who that woman is with Ida?" thought the boy. "I don't like her looks much. I wonder if she's any relation of Mr. Harding. She looks about as pleasant as Aunt Rachel."

The last-mentioned lady would hardly have felt flattered at the comparison.

Ida looked about her with curiosity. There was a novel sensation in being in a new place, particularly a city of which she had heard so much as Philadelphia. As far back as she could remember, she had never left New York, except for a brief excursion to Hoboken; and one Fourth of July was made memorable by a trip to Staten Island, under the guardianship of Jack.

They entered a horse car just outside the depot, and rode probably a mile.

"We get out here," said the nurse. "Take care, or you'll get run over. Now turn down here."

They entered a narrow and dirty street, with unsightly houses on each side.

"This ain't a very nice-looking street," said Ida.

"Why isn't it?" demanded her companion, roughly.

"Why, it's narrow, and the houses don't look nice."

"What do you think of that house there?" asked Mrs. Hardwick, pointing to a dilapidated-looking structure on the right-hand side of the street.

"I shouldn't like to live there," answered Ida.

"You wouldn't, hey? You don't like it so well as the house you live in in New York?"

"No, not half so well."

The nurse smiled.

"Wouldn't you like to go in, and look at the house?"

"Go in and look at the house?" repeated Ida. "Why should we?"

"You must know there are some poor families living there that I am interested in," said Mrs. Hardwick, who appeared amused at something. "Didn't your mother ever tell you that it is our duty to help the poor?"

"Oh, yes, but won't it be late before we get to the lady?"

"No, there's plenty of time. You needn't be afraid of that. There's a poor man living in this house that I've made a good many clothes for, first and last."

"He must be much obliged to you," said Ida.

"We're going up to see him now," said her companion. "Take care of that hole in the stairs."

Somewhat to Ida's surprise, her guide, on reaching the first landing, opened a door without the ceremony of knocking, and revealed a poor, untidy room, in which a coarse, unshaven man was sitting, in his shirt sleeves, smoking a pipe.

"Hello!" exclaimed this individual, jumping up. "So you've got along, old woman! Is that the gal?"

Ida stared from one to the other in amazement.