years old, discovered in a village in Lancashire deserted by its parents, was taken to the nearest workhouse. There were no other children in the workhouse at the time, and a lady visitor, struck with the forlornness of the little girl waif, beginning life under the shadow of of the workhouse, benevolently wrote to Dr. Barnardo, and after some negotiations the child was admitted to the Homes and its photograph taken. Then it went down to the Girls' Village Home at Ilford, where it grew up in one of the cottage families until eleven years old.
Frankie's Box, Exterior.
Frankie's Box, Interior.
From a Photograph.
One day a lady called on Dr. Barnardo and told him a sad tale concerning her own child, a little girl, who had been stolen by a servant who owed her a spite, and who was lost sight of years ago. The lady had done all she could at the time to trace her child in vain, and had given up the pursuit; but lately an unconquerable desire to resume her inquiries filled her. Among other places, she applied to the police in London, and the authorities suggested that she should call at Stepney.
Dr. Barnardo could, of course, give her no clue whatever. Eight years had passed since the child had been lost; but one thing he could do—he could turn to his huge photographic album, and show her the faces of all the children who had been received within certain dates. This was done, and in the course of turning over the pages the lady's eye fell on the face of the little girl waif received from a Lancashire workhouse, and with much agitation declared that she was her child. The girl was still at Ilford. In an hour's time she was fetched up, and found to be a well-grown, nice-mannered child of eleven years of age—to be folded immediately in her mother's arms. "There could be no doubt," the Doctor added, "of the parentage; they were so much alike." Of course, inquiries had to be made as to the position of the lady, and assurances given that she was really able to maintain the child, and that it would be well cared for. These being satisfactory, Dorothy changed hands, and is now being brought up under her mother's eye.
The boys and girls admitted to the fifty Homes under Dr. Barnardo's care are of all nationalities—black and white, even Hindus and Chinese. A little while ago there were fourteen languages spoken in the Homes.
"And what about naming the 'unknown'?" I asked. "What about folk who want to adopt a child and are willing to take one of yours?"
"In the naming of unknown children," the Doctor replied, "we have no certain method, but allow ourselves to be guided by the facts of the case. A very small boy, two years ago, was discovered destitute upon a doorstep in Oxford. He was taken to the workhouse, and, after more or less investigation to discover the people who abandoned him, he came into my hands. He had no name, but he was forthwith christened, and given the name of a very celebrated building standing close to where he was found.
"Marie Perdu suggests at once the history which attaches to her. Rachel Trouvé is equally suggestive. That we have not more names of this sort is due to the fact that we insist upon the most minute, elaborate and careful investigation of every case; and it is, I think, to the credit of our institutions that not more than four or five small infants have been admitted from the first without our having been able to trace each child home to its parentage, and to fill our records with incidents of its early history.
"Regarding the question of adoption. I am very slow to give a child out for adoption in England. In Canada—by-the-bye, during the
