Chapter 1. Our story begins with a boy with no name, who appeared in a cave, one day, and fell down a deep well. I was there the day of his birth, and had but just escaped from the womb, and had no part in his destiny. I stood by the side of the boy's cradle, looking on him with amazement; but as he was healthy, and I did not think he had been hurt, I thought he would be called the Baby, and had nothing else to give him. I had not time to consider: a great man rushed in and commanded the nurse to go. It was not for me to know who was the father; and I had more important matters to think of, as will appear in the sequel. The nurse took the infant in her arms, wrapped him in the only present she had at command; which was her petticoat; and went out into the rain, that beat against the window. As I turned to go with her, the nurse gave me a parting glance, which seemed to say, 'My blessing, too, you have.' The boy had one black eye; and his lips were pale, and quivered as if he were in pain. I saw it was his part to suffer. The cry that the Baby made attracted my notice. When I looked into the cradle, I said: 'What a shame!' I wanted to make another little creature cry. I found fault with the nurse for laying the Boy in my cradle, but I could not scold her; and that vexed me. I was very angry; but I thought my anger was caused by jealousy. I saw the boy was cross, and as I was not angry with the Nurse, I was sure that the Baby was cross; and yet I knew nothing of nursing. I wished that I could be sent to the country; there I would see how a child is to be looked after. A day or two after this, some one told me that the boy's name was Lazarus; and then I guessed who the Baby must be. But time went on: days passed, and a new name was added, until one day I heard that a little sister was born. That was the last straw. 'It's all over,' said I, 'with the nurse; and that's the reason she never sent the babies out into the world, to see if people would come to trouble them.' Houses and farms have their stories; so have people, though they are of less consequence. I shall tell the stories of a few of the persons in this house. Chapter 2. The story of Old Tom. The baby was not given to me: he was given to Martha to take care of. And Martha went to nurse the first child, and wept, when she took her baby home. Old Tom, the carter, had a son, and he had been in the army, and had lost his right arm. He took a great interest in his little son; and it would have been well if his sister had not interfered. She used to say that the baby's father never came to see him; but that was because he could not find the way to the house. I told Martha this was wicked, and it was not respectful to the father: but she was so positive about the right, that I took my baby to old Tom. I went straight to his cottage, and said, 'Mr. Tom, here's a baby for you;' and then I looked as innocent as I could, that I hoped he might be forgiven. The old man looked kindly at me. He was much impressed by the child's beauty, and asked me how much I charged a year for taking care of him; but Martha would not hear of this. I walked away slowly; but Martha's voice followed me; and I felt sure the old man would find out all about the arrangement. I am sure that Martha's feelings were good: she meant to serve the father and mother to whom she was attached, and yet she had no influence with Martha. When I was with old Tom, I used to talk as loud as I could, to the detriment of the baby. I think it was out of jealousy; but I liked old Tom; he was a good fellow. I went to his cottage again; and this time Martha said, 'She did not believe that if Mr. Tom wished it, it would make him worse, if she sent the boy for a little walk.' I went alone, after this. I thought it my duty to be sentimental, and I began to cry when I reached old Tom's cottage. He was sitting by the fire, reading. 'My eyes are very bad, little girl;' he said; 'give me a kiss.' But I found out afterwards that he meant for some other reason. I took the baby; he was as white as a sheet, and had been weeping; and, indeed, he had a good cry before I came out of the house. It was a cold March day, and I had walked a long distance, in order to do as Martha asked. I remember walking, with the baby, into the kitchen, and there was a fire; and there was a beautiful white cloth on the table; and there was a brown jug full of milk for the baby. And the old woman said: 'Ah, Martha! this is a poor-looking baby. Who does he belong to?' I could not tell, at the moment; but the old man was there; and he explained that the baby was left by one of the officers in the army. 'His name is Lazarus, she can't call it for my sake.' Martha was in the room, but not to take care of the baby: she began to cry. She knew better than anyone else how I had longed for a child. 'I would give anything to be able to nurse it,' she sobbed. And the old man, I could see, was rejoiced to have the baby taken from my charge; and I knew very well he meant that I should give it to Martha. I did not say a word; but, as soon as I could get the baby in a comfortable way, I hurried away. The snow came in the night, and I found it hard work to keep the baby warm. He had no other clothes than the nurse's petticoat. The snow was drifted high by the side of the house, where the cow used to be tied; but, when she was taken away, I found the poor little fellow had been used to reach the poor beast's milk, for, in the morning, the snow had been pushed back again. I shall never forget the scene of horror; for I had to take the baby there, in the night, as soon as the snow fell. 'Have you tied the cow up?' I asked the old man, and he said, 'No; she has taken fright.' I went to old Tom's cottage, the next day. He was very kind to me, and the old woman was full of kindness and sympathy. The baby was quite well. I was not in a mood to feel happy: it was not my baby, nor my home; so I went away, alone, to cry. I heard of some of the old people, who had not long to live, and I went to one of their houses; but the old man was so ill that I knew he would die within a very short time; and I wished to see the baby before he died. The old woman found the baby crying. She came to me. 'Here's a baby.' I asked her if it was the child. She said, 'Yes;' and I went to the old man and saw him; he had not changed his position, he was leaning against a piece of furniture, as though he had been asleep. 'She's a nice baby, isn't she?' he said. 'Yes, she's a pretty baby,' said the old woman. I did not care to see the old man again, so I went away. I thought Martha had been left all alone with the baby. 'I must go and see the old man. I cannot go without a message,' I thought, and I could not find the man. I suppose his housekeeper had taken charge of him; and that is why the old man took the petticoat off the boy. I was very near to the old man, and he could not hear what I was saying; but I saw Martha go to her husband, and stoop down to kiss him; and, in a minute, she pulled away the bit of stuff that he lay upon; and the old man sighed, and said, 'She's a good girl; and the worst is over, and she will be happy now.' After this I was near to the house of the old man, whenever I met him. 'How are you, sir?' he would say. 'Did you think I was going to die?' I thought he would never die. But I would not allow myself to look into the future, or meddle in