eyelids, and asked for some water. Elsie jumped up and began searching in the room; but there was neither basin nor jug, and such a simple thing as a drop of water was not to be had.

She told Duncan there wasn't any; but he did not seem to understand, and kept on asking for it. Elsie, in her indignant anger, beat furiously at the door to attract some one's attention, but in vain. No one came near.

It drove her almost mad to hear the child moaning and groaning, and calling out incessantly for water in a peevish, whining voice. Where was Mrs. Donaldson? and why had she left them in this cruel way, without food or even a drop of water, although she knew that Duncan was ill?

After a long time, Elsie heard some one coming up to the attic; the door opened, and the girl who had brought them upstairs put her unkempt head in at the door.

"Just to have a look at you," she said, with a broad grin upon her face, which was a very stupid-looking one, and frightfully begrimed. "I sleep up here, just next to you."

"Will you get us a little water?" Elsie cried.

"Why, yes!" said the girl, good-naturedly. "There's a pitcher full out here. I'll bring it in."

She came in, bringing it with her, and then went up to the bedside, where Duncan lay tossing and moaning. "Is it for him to drink?" she asked. "I'll go fetch a mug." And she sped away, bringing back an old gallipot, which she filled, and held to the child's lips.

"But he is just bad," she said, looking at him. "Ain't he hot? He's got the fever! Is that the reason you was brought here?"

"I'm sure I don't know," Elsie replied, wondering how much she dared say to this girl, and with a recollection of the "fairy mother's" threats.

"Do you know where mamma is?" she asked, cautiously.

The girl burst out laughing. "You needn't come that here," she said. "We know her and him well enough, both of them. They wasn't always such grand folk, I can tell you. Why, Lucy Murdoch is as well known down Stony Close as ever I am. Her mother lived next to mine, and does to this day, and holds her head so high, on account of her daughter, that she'd like to pass mother in the street if she dared. If you belong to her, it's news to me, and I've known her all my life." All this was said with the quaint expressions and broad northern dialect that Elsie very well understood, although none but a Scottish lassie would do so.

"I don't think you like her much," Elsie said.

The girl made a wry grimace. "I like any one so long as they don't do me no harm," she replied evasively. "She wouldn't stand at that, either, if she had the mind. How did you get with her?"

Elsie pondered a moment, and then decided she would tell this girl everything, and trust to her being a friend.

"She found us on a road by the mountains, oh! ever so far away from here; and she seemed so kind, and brought us clothes, and took us to a nice house to sleep, and brought us in the train all this way," Elsie said.

"H'm," the girl said, looking rather puzzled. "Well, she'd got her reasons," she added presently. "I don't know what they might be, but it wasn't done for any good to you. What did they bring you here for?"

"I don't know," Elsie replied.

"You see, master's in all their secrets. He's one with them, and does a lot of business with them. To tell you the truth—which you needn't let out, unless you want to have your head smashed—he's master's brother, only he goes under another name. Now, what did he tell you his name was?"

"I was told to call him Uncle 'William,'" Elsie replied, "and the lady 'Mamma.'"

The girl laughed to herself heartily—a sort of suppressed chuckle, which could scarcely have been heard outside the door. "Well, that's a queer dodge! I suppose she made out that she was his sister; and she was dressed like a widow, and he's her husband all the time, which I know very well. She passes, then, as a widow with two children, does she?"

"I suppose so," Elsie replied, scarcely understanding what the girl was talking about.

"She's deep, she is," the girl continued; "and lots of money always, hasn't she? rings too, and bracelets, and all sorts of things."

"She had at first all those things, and I've seen a lot of money in her purse."

"Well, would you think she once lived in Stony Close along of us, and was only a poor girl like me, though always a dashing one, with a handsome face of her own?" the girl asked. "They think I'm so stupid, but I ain't quite so stupid as I look. I don't forget. I wasn't as old as you are when Lucy Murdoch was married, but I remember it. What were you doing on that road when she found you?" she asked suddenly.

"We had run away from home," Elsie replied falteringly, for at the thought of home she felt ready to cry.

"My goodness! you can't be the two children what was lost off a moor somewhere up Deeside."

"How did you know it?" Elsie cried eagerly. "Has mother been here?"

"Oh, no! It's posted up at the police station," the girl replied. "They always have all such things up there: a description of you, and everything. Your mother goes and tells the police, and they has it printed, and sends it about everywhere. Lucy Murdoch is after the reward, I'll be bound!"

All this was quite unintelligible to Elsie, who knew nothing of rewards or police regulations. Only one thing she learnt, and that was that they were being sought for, and she hoped some one would find them. A slight misgiving crossed her mind as to whether the police could take her to prison for having run away; but this did not trouble her very much, for she felt sure that Mrs. MacDougall would never let any bad thing befall them, and no one else could have told the police to search.

"I suppose I should just get it if I was found in here," the girl said presently. "You won't go telling, I suppose; for if they thought I knew too much, they'd——" the sentence ended with a grimace and expressive shrug of the shoulders.

Again the girl held the jar to Duncan's parched lips. "I dursn't stay," she said, kindly; "but if you knock at this wall I shall hear, and I'll come if you want me. We're up at the top, so there's no one to pry down the stairs. He do seem real bad, poor little chap! but maybe he'll be better in the morning."

With these words she departed, locking the door after her; and Elsie somehow felt that, in spite of her rough looks and miserable appearance, she had found a friend.

CHAPTER XIII.—A DREADFUL NIGHT.

T
he pangs of hunger which Elsie was feeling pretty sharply were nothing compared to the pain of mind she was enduring; for although she was the child of poor people, and had lived all her life in a cottage, with plain fare and plenty to do, she had been accustomed to perfect cleanliness, and a good deal of simple comfort.

After a while she undressed herself, and crept into the not too clean bed with a feeling of disgust. It was so different from the coarse cotton sheets—bleached white as snow, and smelling sweet of the fresh, pure air—that covered her own little bed. The room, too, was hot, close, and stifling.

Still this was nothing to the fear she felt for Duncan, lying so ill and wretched in this miserable attic, without mother, or granny, or any one to see after him.

The candle burnt out, and they were left alone in the dark. There was no chance of sleeping, for Duncan tossed and plunged about, trying to find some cool resting-place for his fevered limbs. The moments dragged slowly away—so slowly that poor Elsie thought the dreadful night would never go.

About the middle of the night Duncan began to mutter rapidly to himself. He spoke so quickly and incoherently that Elsie could not make out what he was saying. She jumped out of