That night Hannah Searles slept again with a child clasped to her bosom. Her sleep was very sweet to her, but the morning brought fresh cares. She had now quite resolved to keep little Roy.  He was not her child, she knew that, but he had been sent to her.  She shut her eyes resolutely to the fact of some other woman's broken heart for the loss of him.  No, if he had a mother living she must be strangely careless to allow so great a treasure to go away from her, and to be found in a public-house.  But Hannah guessed that little Roy's mother was dead.  If she was alive he would have spoken of his mammie, but no, he only mentioned some mysterious fate: _she_ was his real fate--she would be a mother to him, and make up to him by her love for the loss of his own.