Fortunately, Eben Slade had not again made his appearance in the

neighborhood. He had left Vanbogen's immediately after Jack had paid his

rough compliments to him, and he had not been seen there since. But at

any moment he might reappear at Lakewood and carry out his threat of

obtaining an interview with Dorry. This Donald dreaded of all things,

and he resolved that it should not come to pass. How to prevent it was

the question. He and his uncle had agreed that she must be spared not

only all knowledge of the secret, but all anxiety or suspicion

concerning her history; and they and Jack kept a constant lookout for

the disagreeable intruder.

Day by day, when alone, Donald pondered over the case, resolved upon

establishing his sister's identity, recalling again and again all that

his uncle had told him, and secretly devising plans that grew more and

more settled in his mind as time went on. Jack, who had been in Mr.

Reed's confidence from the first, was now taken fully into Donald's. He

was proud of the boy's fervor, but had little hope. Fourteen, nearly

fifteen, years was a long time, and if Ellen Lee had hidden herself

successfully in 1859 and since, why could she not do so still? Donald

had his own opinion. Evidently she had some reason for hiding, or

fancied she had; but she must be found, and if so, why should not he,

Donald Reed, find her? Yes, there was no other way. Donald was studying

logic at the time, and had committed pages of it to memory in the most

dutiful manner. To be sure, while these vital plans were forming in his

brain, he did not happen to recall any page of the logic that exactly

fitted the case, but in some way he flattered himself that he had become

rather expert in the art of thinking and of balancing ideas.

"A fellow can't do more than use his wits, after all," he said to

himself, "and all this studying and getting ready to enter Columbia

College next year, as Uncle says I may, will do well enough _afterward_;

but at present we've something else to attend to."

And, to make a long story not too long and tedious, the end of it was

that one bright spring day, months after that memorable afternoon at

Vanbogen's, Donald, having had many earnest interviews meanwhile,

obtained his uncle's unwilling consent that he should sail alone for

England in the next steamer.

* * * * *

Poor Dorry--glad if Don was glad, but totally ignorant of his

errand--was too amazed at the bare announcement of the voyage to take in

the idea at all.

Lydia, horrified, was morally sure that the boy never would come back

alive.

Sailor Jack, on his sea-legs in an instant, gave his unqualified

approbation of the scheme.

Uncle George, unconvinced but yielding, answered Donald's questions;

agreed that Dorry should be told simply that his uncle was sending him

on important business; allowed him to make copies of letters, lists, and

documents, even trusted some of the long-guarded and precious relics to

his keeping; furnished advice and money, and, in fact, helped him all he

could; then resolved the boy should not go after all; and finally,

holding Dorry's cold hand as they stood a few days later on the crowded

city wharf, bade him good-by and God bless him!

[Illustration: OFF FOR EUROPE.]

CHAPTER XXIX.

AN UNEXPECTED LETTER.

"IT was all so sudden," explained Dorothy to Charity Danby, a few weeks

afterward, in talking over her brother's departure, "that I feel as if I

were dreaming and that Don must soon come and wake me up."

"Strange that he should 'a' been allowed to go all the way to Europe,

alone so--and he barely fifteen yet," remarked Mrs. Danby, who was

ironing Jamie's Sunday frock at the time.

"Donald is nearly sixteen," said Dorry with dignity, "and he went on

important business for Uncle. Didn't Ben go West when he was much

younger than that?"

"Oh, yes, my dear, but then Ben is--different, you know. He's looked out

for himself 'most ever since he was a baby. Now, Ellen Eliza," she

exclaimed, suddenly changing her tone as the tender-hearted one came in

sight, "what in the world are you goin' to do with that lame rabbit you

put in the box there?"

"Cure it, Ma. That's what I'm going to do with it."

"Well, if anybody can, you can, I s'pose. But it's layin' so still I'm

afraid you'll lose it."

"Charity says only hens _lay_, Ma," replied Ellen Eliza, suggestively,

at the same time hurrying to the box in great solicitude.

"Well, I never!" exclaimed Mrs. Danby, laughing lightly. "Them children"

(here the proud mother turned to Dorothy), "with their lessons and what

not, are gettin' to be too much for me. I have to speak as ac'rate as a

school-teacher to satisfy 'em. Only the other day, little Fandy took me

by surprise. He's the brightest of the lot, you know. Well, I wanted to

start the fire, and the matches had given clean out. 'Here's a pretty

fix!' says I. 'A fire to light, and no matches!' 'I can help you, Ma,'

says Fandy. 'Can you dear?' says I, pleased enough; 'have _you_ got some

matches?' 'No, Ma,' says the child. 'Well, how can you help me then?' I

says; 'there isn't a spark or a live coal anywhere in the house. I can't

light the fire without matches, that's certain.' 'Yes, you can light it

without _matches_, Ma,' says he, in his 'cute, pos'tive way; 'yes, you

can.' 'How _can_ I?' says I, more to draw him out than with any hope o'

gettin' help from him. 'Why,' says he, bowin' to me as grand as the

best, and takin' somethin' out o' his little wescut pocket, 'you can use

_a match_, Ma, and here's one; it's the only one I've got!' Now wasn't

that a good catch, Dorothy, for a child o' his tender years?"

"Yes, indeed it was," assented Dorothy, heartily.

"Ma," began Ellen Eliza, who had been listening with much interest,

"did--"

"Why, Ellen Eliza! Are you standing there yet? Now don't lay your wet

apron down on your sister's poetry you forlorn, distres-sed lookin'

child! She's been writin' like wild this mornin', Mandy has, but I

haven't had time enough to read it. It's a cryin' shame, Dorothy, her

poetry isn't all printed in a book by this time. It would sell like hot

cakes, I do believe,--and sell quicker, too, if folks knew she wasn't

going to have much more time for writin'. She's going to be a teacher,

Mandy is. Young Mr. Ricketts got her a situation in a 'cademy down to

Trenton, where she's to study and teach and make herself useful till she

per_fects_ herself. 'Tisn't every girl gets a chance to be per_fect_ed

so easy, either. Oh, Charity--there's so much on my mind!--I forgot to

tell you that Ben found your 'rithmetic in the grass, 'way down past the

melon-patch where baby Jamie must have left it. There, put up your

sewing, Charity, and you and Dorothy take a run; you look jaded-like.

Why, mercy on us!" continued the good woman, looking up at this moment

and gently waving her scorching-hot iron in the air to cool it off a

little, "you look flushed, Dorothy. You haven't gone and got malaria,

have you?"

"Oh, no," said Dorry, laughing in spite of her sadness. "It is not

malaria that troubles me: it's living for three whole weeks without

seeing Donald."

"Dear, dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Danby. "I don't wonder if it is, you poor

child--only one brother so, and him a twin." Dorry laughed pleasantly

again, and then, with a cheerful "good-by," walked slowly homeward.

The next morning, when she awoke, she felt so weary and sleepy that she

sent a good-morning message to her uncle and told Lydia she would not

get up till after breakfast-time. "Be sure," she said to Liddy, "to tell

Uncle that I am not really ill,--only lazy and sleepy,--and by and by

you may let Kassy bring a cup of very weak coffee."

Lydia, secretly distressed but outwardly cheerful, begged her dear young

lady to take a nice long nap. Then lighting the fire,--for the morning

was raw and chilly though it was May,--she bustled about the room till

Dorry was very wide-awake indeed. Next, Uncle George came up to bid her

good-morning, and make special inquiries, and when he went down

reassured, Kassy came in with her breakfast. By this time Dorothy had

given up all thought of sleep for the present.

"Why, Kassy!" she exclaimed in plaintive surprise, "you've brought

enough to feed a regiment. I can't eat all that bread, if I _am_ ill--"

"Oh, but I'm to make toast for you, here in your room, Miss," explained

Kassy, who evidently had something on her mind. "Lydia,--I mean Mr.

Reed, said so."

"How nice!" exclaimed Dorry, listlessly.

Kassy took her place by the open fire, and after hesitating a moment

began to toast the bread, while Dorry lay looking at her, feeling

neither ill nor well, and half inclined to cry from sheer loneliness.

This was to be the twenty-third day without Donald.

"I wonder what that important business can be," she thought; "but, most

likely, Uncle will tell me all about it before long."

[Illustration: KASSY EVIDENTLY HAD SOMETHING ON HER MIND.]

Meanwhile, Kassy continued to toast bread. A formidable pile of

browned slices already lay on the plate, and she was preparing, in

absent-minded fashion, to attack another slice, when suddenly the long

toasting-fork hung aimlessly from one hand, while the other began

fumbling in her pocket. Finally, in a cautious, troubled way, she handed

the young lady a letter.

"I--I should have given it to you before, Miss," she faltered, "but kept

it because I thought--that--perhaps--I--"

But Dorry already had torn open the envelope, and was reading the

contents.

Kassy, watching her, was frightened at seeing the poor girl's face flush

painfully, then turn deadly pale.

"Not bad news, is it, Miss? Oh, Miss Dorry, maybe I've done wrong in

handing it to you; but a gentleman gave me half a dollar, day before

yesterday, Miss, to put it secretly into your hands, and he said it was

something you'd rejoice to know about."

Dorry, now sitting up on the bed, hardly heard her. With trembling

hands, she held the opened letter, and motioned toward the door.

"Go, call Mr. Reed! No, no--stay here--Oh, what _shall_ I do? What ought

I to do?" she thought to herself, and then added aloud, with decision:

"Yes, go ask Mr. Reed to please come up. You need not return."

Hastily springing to the floor, Dorry thrust her feet into a pair of

slippers, put on a long white woollen wrapper that made her look like a

grown woman, and stood with the letter in her hand as her uncle entered.

She remained motionless as a statue while he hastily read it, her white

face in strange contrast to the angry hue that overspread Mr. Reed's

countenance.

"Horrible!" he exclaimed, as he reached the last word. "Where did this

letter come from Dorothy? How did you get it?"

"Kassy brought it. A man gave her half a dollar--she thought it had

good news in it. Oh, Uncle!" (seeing the wrath in Mr. Reed's face), "she

ought not to have taken it, of course, but she doesn't know any

better--and I didn't notice either, when I opened it, that it had no

post-mark."

"Did you read it all?"

Dorothy nodded.

"Well, I must go. I'll attend to this letter. The scoundrel! You are not

going to faint, my child?" putting his arm quickly around her.

"Oh, no, Uncle," she said, looking up at him with an effort. "But what

does it mean? Who is this man?"

"I'll tell you later, Dorry. I must go now--"

"Uncle, you are so angry! Wait one moment. Let me go with you."

Her frightened look brought Mr. Reed to his senses. In a calmer voice he

begged her to give herself no uneasiness, but to lie down again and

rest. He would send Lydia up, for he must lose no time in attending to

that letter. He was just going to open the door, when Josie Manning's

pleasant voice was heard at the foot of the stair: "Is any one at home?

May I come up?"

"Oh, no," shuddered Dorothy.

"Yes, yes," urged Mr. Reed. "Let your friend see you, my girl. Her

cheerfulness will help you to forget this rascally, cruel letter. There,

good-by for the present," and, kissing her, Mr. Reed left the room.

Josie's bright face soon appeared at the door.

"Well, I declare!" she exclaimed. "Are you rehearsing for a charade,

Miss Reed? And who are you in your long white train--Lady Angelica, or

Donna Isabella, or who?"

"I don't know who I am!" sobbed poor Dorothy, throwing herself upon the

bed and hiding her face in the pillows.

"Why, what _is_ the matter? Are you ill? Have you heard bad news? Oh, I

forget," continued Josie, as Dorry made no reply; "what a goose I must

be! Of course you are miserable without Don, you darling! But I've come

to bring good news, my lady--to me, at least--so cheer up. Do you know

something? Mamma and Papa are going to start for San Francisco on

Wednesday. They gave me my choice--to go with them or to stay with you,

and I decided to stay. So they and your uncle settled it late last night

that I am to be here with you till they come back--two whole months,

Dot! Isn't that nice?"

"Ever so nice!" said Dorry, without lifting her head. "I am really glad,

Jo; but my head aches, and I feel dreadfully this morning."

"Have you had any breakfast?" asked the practical Josie, much puzzled.

"N-no," sobbed Dorry.

"Well, no wonder you feel badly. Look at this cold coffee, and that

mountain of toast, and not a thing touched. I declare, if I don't go

right down and tell Liddy. We'll get you up a good hot breakfast, and

you can doze quietly till we come."

Dorry felt a gentle arm round her for an instant, and a warm cheek

pressed to hers, and then she was alone--alone with her thoughts of that

dreadful letter.

It was from Eben Slade, and it contained all that he had told Donald

on that day at Vanbogen's, and a great deal more. He had kept quiet long

enough, he added, and now he wished her to understand that, as her

uncle, he had some claim upon her; that her real name was Delia

Robertson; she was no more Dorothy Reed than he was; and that she must

not tell a living soul a word about this letter, or it would make

trouble. If she had any spirit or any sense of justice, he urged, she

would manage for him to see her some day when Mr. Reed was out. Of

course--(the letter went on to say)--Mr. Reed would object if he knew,

for it was to his interest to claim her; but truth was truth, and George

Reed was no relation to her whatever. The person she had been taught to

call Aunt Kate was really her mother, and it was her mother's own

brother, Eben, who was writing this letter. All he asked for was an

interview. He had a great deal to say to her, and Mr. Reed was a tyrant

who would keep her a prisoner if he could, so that her own Uncle Eben

could not even see her. He had been unfortunate and lost all his money.

If he was rich he would see that he and his dear niece Delia had their

rights, in spite of the tyrant who held her in bondage. She _must_

manage to see him,--(so ran the letter)--and she could put a letter for

him, after dark that night, under the large stone by the walnut-tree

behind the summer-house. He would come and see her at any time she

mentioned. No girl of spirit would be held, for a single day, in such

bondage, especially when sacred duties called her elsewhere. The writer

concluded by calling her again his dear Delia, and signing himself her

affectionate uncle, Eben Slade.

Early on that same evening, Sailor Jack, reaching the summer-house by a

circuitous route, stealthily laid a dainty-looking note under the large

stone by the walnut tree. He held his breath as he lingered a moment

among the shadows. Ah, if he only could have his own way, what a chance

this would be to leave that paltry thrashing at Vanbogen's far in the

background! How he longed to get his hands on Eben Slade once more! But,

no; he had received his instructions, and must obey. Besides, Slade was

too wary a man to be caught this time. So poor Jack was forced to go

back to the stables, and there bustle noisily about as though nothing

unusual were expected.

But it was some satisfaction to follow Mr. Reed's further orders to keep

a sharp lookout all that night, about the premises. Meantime Eben Slade,

who like most men of his sort was a coward at heart, had hastily

withdrawn to a safe distance, after finding what he sought under the

walnut-tree. Soon he sat down in the woods that crossed his road, and

there, by the light of a candle-end that he had with him, eagerly opened

the dainty letter.

The man clutched the paper angrily as he read. It was not from the poor,

frightened girl whose words he had hoped to see, but from Mr. Reed,--a

plain, strong letter, that, while it increased Slade's wrath, and showed

him the futility of pursuing his persecutions for the present, made him

also savagely hopeful.

"Well," he muttered to himself, as he stole through the rain, along

the dark road towards the shabby house which was to shelter him for the

night, "I don't give her up yet by a good deal, and there's considerable

worry ahead of George Reed still. Confound it! If I had that man's money

and position I could work out the case to a certainty. But what can a

fellow do without a dime or a friend? What if the boy _has_ gone over

the sea to find out for himself, he isn't likely to succeed after all

these years; and if he _does_ get any further particulars, why they're

just as apt as not to be all in my favor. The girl is just as likely to

be mine as theirs. Ten chances to one she's Kate's child, after all.

Things will work right, yet. I'll bide my time."

CHAPTER XXX.

A TIME OF SUSPENSE.

THAT same morning, after Josie had gone home to assist her mother in

preparations for the trip to California, Dorothy, exhausted by the

morning's emotions, fell into a heavy sleep, from which she did not

waken till late in the afternoon. By the bed stood a little table, on

which were two fine oranges, each on a Venetian glass plate, and

surmounted by a card. On one was written: "Miss Dorothy Reed, with the

high, respectful consideration of her sympathizing friend, Edward Tyler,

who hopes she will soon be well;" and the other bore a limping verse in

Josie's familiar handwriting:

"To this fair maid no _quarter_ show,

Good Orange, sweet and yellow,

But let her eat you--in a certain way

That Dorothy and I both know--

That's a good fellow!"

Dorry appreciated both the notes and the oranges, and her spirits rose

again as she heard Liddy softly singing in the next room. That evening,

after she and her uncle had had a long talk together, she kissed him for

good-night, and, though there were tears in her bright eyes, she looked

a spirited little maiden who did not intend to give herself up to

doubting and grieving, so long as "there was more than hope" that she

was Dorothy.

Half an hour later, the young girl stole softly down to the deserted

sitting-room, lit only by the glowing remains of a wood-fire, and taking

an unlighted student's lamp from the centre-table, made her rapid way

back to her pretty bedroom up stairs. Here, after putting on the soft

Lady-Angelica wrapper, as Josie had called it, she sat for a long time

in a low easy-chair, with her little red-slippered feet in a rug before

the fire, thinking of all that the eventful day had brought her.

"There is more than hope," she mused, while her eyes were full of

tears: "those were Uncle's very words--more than hope, that I am Dorothy

Reed. But what if it really is not so; what if I am no relation to

my--to the Reed family at all--no relation to Uncle George nor to

Donald?" From weeping afresh at this thought, and feeling utterly lonely

and wretched, she began to wonder how it would feel to be Delia. In that

case, Aunt Kate would have been her mother. For an instant this was some

consolation, but she soon realized that, while Aunt Kate was very dear

to her fancy, she could not think of her as her mother; and then there

was Uncle Robertson--no, she never could think of him as her father; and

that dreadful, cruel Eben Slade, her _uncle_? Horrible! At this thought

her soul turned with a great longing toward the unknown mother and

father, who, to her childish mind, had appeared merely as stately

personages, full of good qualities--Mr. and Mrs. Wolcott Reed, honored

by all who knew them, but very unreal and shadowy to her. Now, as she

sat half-dreaming, half-thinking, their images grew distinct and loving;

they seemed to reach out their arms tenderly to her, and the many good

words about them that from time to time had fallen tamely upon her ears

now gained life and force. She felt braver and better, clinging in

imagination to them, and begging them to forgive her, their own girl

Dorothy, for not truly knowing them before.

Meantime, the night outside had been growing colder and there were signs

of a storm. A shutter in some other part of the building blew open

violently, and the wind moaned through the pine-trees at the corner of

the house. Then the sweet, warm visions that had comforted her faded

from her mind and a dreadful loneliness came over her. A great longing

for Donald filled her heart. She tried to pray,--

"No thought confessed, no wish expressed,

Only a sense of supplication."

Then her thoughts took shape, and she prayed for him, her brother, alone

in a foreign land, and for Uncle, troubled and waiting, at home, and for

herself, that she might be patient and good, and have strength to do

what was right--even to go with Eben Slade to his distant home, _if she

were really his sister's child_.

The storm became so dismal that Dorry poked the fire into a blaze, and

lighted the student's lamp that she had placed on the table behind the

arm-chair. Then she took a photograph from the mantel-shelf and an oval

hand-glass from her dressing-table, and, looking hurriedly about her to

be doubly sure that she was alone, she sat down resolutely, as if saying

to herself: "Now, we'll see!"

Poor Dot! The photograph showed Donald, a handsome, manly boy, of whom

any loving sister might be proud; but the firm, boyish face, with its

square brows, roundish features, and shining black hair, certainly did

not seem to be in the least like the picture that looked anxiously at

her out of the hand-glass--a sweet face, with its oval outline, soft,

dark eyes and long lashes, its low, arched eyebrows, its expressive

mouth, and sunny, dark brown tresses.

Feature by feature, she scanned the two faces carefully, unconsciously

drawing in her warm-tinted cheeks and pouting her lips, in her desire to

resemble the photograph; but it was of no use. The two faces would not

be alike; and yet, as she looked again, was there not something similar

about the foreheads and the lower line of the faces? Hastily pushing

back her hair with one hand, she saw with joy that, excepting the

eyebrows, there really was a likeness: the line where the hair began was

certainly almost the same on both faces.

"Dear, dear old Donald! Why, we are just alike there! I'll show Uncle

to-morrow. It's wonderful."

Dorry laughed a happy little laugh, all by herself.

"Besides," she thought, as she laid the mirror away, "we are alike, in

our natures, and in our ways and in loving each other, and I don't care

a bit what anybody says to the contrary."

Thus braced, she drew her chair closer to the table and began a letter

to Donald. A vague consciousness that by this time every one in the

house must be in bed and asleep deepened her sense of being alone with

Donald as she wrote. It seemed that he read every word as soon as it

fell upon the paper, and that in the stillness of the room she almost

could hear him breathe.

It was a long letter. At any other time, Dorry's hand would have wearied

with the mere exercise of writing so many pages; but there was so much

to tell that she took no thought of fatigue. It was enough that she was

pouring out her heart to Donald.

"I know now," the letter went on to say, "why you have gone to Europe,

and why I was not told the errand. Dear, dear Donald! And you knew it

all before you went away; and that is why you sometimes seemed silent

and troubled, and why you were so patient and good and gentle with me,

even when I teased you and made sport of you! Uncle told me this

afternoon all that he has to tell, and I have assured him that I am

Dorry, and nobody else, and that he need not be bothered about it any

more (though you know, Don, I cannot help feeling awfully. It's so

dreadful to think of us all being so mixed up. The very idea of my not

being Dorry makes me miserable. Yet, if I were anybody else, would I not

be the first to know it? Yes, Donald, whether you find proof or not, you

dear, good, noble old fellow, _I am your sister_--I feel it in my very

bones--and you are my brother. Nobody on earth can make me believe you

are not. That dreadful man said in his letter that it was to George

Reed's interest that I should be known as Dorothy Reed. Oh, Don, as if

it were not to _my_ interest, too, and yours! But if it is not so, if it

really is _true_ that I am not Dorothy, but Delia, why, I must be Delia

in earnest, and do my duty to my--_her_ mother's brother. He writes that

his wife is sick, and that he is miserable, with no comforts at home and

no one to care whether he is good or bad. So, you see, I _must_ go and

leave you and Uncle, if I am Delia. And, Don, there's another thing,

though it's the least part of it: if I am Delia, I am poor, and it is

right that I should earn my living, though you and Uncle should both

oppose it, for I am no relation to any one,--I mean any one here,--and

it would not be honorable for me to stay here in luxury.

"I can see your eyes flash at this, dear brother, or perhaps you will

say I am foolish to think of such things yet a while. So I am, may be,

but I must talk to you of all that is in my thoughts. It is very lonely

here to-night. The rain is pouring against the windows, and it seems

like November; and, do you know, I dread to-morrow, for I am afraid I

may show in _some_ way to dear Uncle George that I am not absolutely

certain he is any relation to me. I feel so strange! Even Jack and Liddy

do not know who I really am. Wouldn't Josie and Ed be surprised if they

knew about things? I wish they did. I wish every one did, for secrecy is

odious.

"Donald, dear, this is an imbecile way of talking. I dare say I shall

tear up my letter in the morning. No, I shall not. It belongs to you,

for it is just what your loving old Dorry is thinking this night.

"Good-night, my _brother_. In my letter, sent last Saturday, I told you

how delighted Uncle and I were with your descriptions of London and

Liverpool.

"I show Uncle your letters to me, but he does not return the compliment;

that is, he has read to me only parts of those you have written to him.

May be he will let me read them through _now_, since I know 'the

important business.' Keep up a good heart, Don, and do not mind my

whining a little in this letter. Now that I am going to sign my name, I

feel as if every doubt I have expressed is almost wicked. So, good-night

again, dear Donald, and ever so much love from your own faithful sister,

DORRY.

"P. S.--Uncle said this afternoon, when I begged him to start with me

right away to join you in Europe, that if it were not for some matters

needing his presence here, we might go; but that he cannot possibly

leave at present. Dear Uncle! I'll be glad when morning comes, so that I

may put my arms around his neck and be his own cheerful Dorry again.

Liddy does not know yet that I have heard anything. I forgot to say that

Mr. and Mrs. Manning are going to California, and that Josie is to spend

two months with me. Won't that be a comfort? How strange it will seem to

have a secret from her! But Uncle says I must wait.

"P. S. again.--Be sure to answer this in English. I know we agreed to

correspond in French, for the sake of the practice, but I have no heart

for it now. It is too hard work. Good-night, once more. The storm is

over. Your loving

DORRY."

CHAPTER XXXI.

ONLY A BIT OF RAG.

DORRY'S long letter reached Donald two weeks later, as he sat in his

room at a hotel in Aix-la-Chapelle. He had been feeling lonely and

rather discouraged, notwithstanding the many sights that had interested

him during the day. And after many disappointments and necessary delays

in the prosecution of the business that had taken him across the sea, he

had begun to feel that, perhaps, it would be just as well to sail for

home and let things go on as before. Dorry, he thought, need never know

of the doubts and anxieties that had troubled Uncle George and himself,

and for his part he would rest in his belief that he and she were

Wolcott Reed's own children, joint heirs to the estate, and, as Liddy

had so often called them, "the happiest pair of twins in the world."

But Dot's letter changed everything. Now that she knew all, he would

not rest a day even, till her identity was proved beyond a possibility

of doubt. But how to do it? No matter; do it he would, if it were in the

power of man. (Donald in these days felt at least twenty years old.)

Dorry's words had fired his courage anew. As he looked out upon the

starry night, over the roof-peaks of the quaint old city, he felt like a

Crusader, and Dorothy's happiness was his Holy-land, to be rescued from

all invaders. The spirit of grand old Charlemagne, whose bones were in

the Cathedral close by, was not more resolute than Donald's was now.

All this and more he told her in his letter written that night, but the

"more" did not include the experiences of the past twelve hours of

daylight. He did not tell her how he had that day, with much difficulty,

found the Prussian physician who had attended his father, Wolcott Reed,

in his last illness, and how very hard it had been to make the old man

even remember the family, and how little information, after all, he had

been able to obtain.

"Vifteen year vas a long dime, eh?" the doctor had said in his broken

English, and as for "dose dwin bapies," he could recall "nod-ings aboud

dot at all."

But Don's letter suited Dorothy admirably, and in its sturdy helpfulness

and cheer, and its off-hand, picturesque account of his adventures, it

quite consoled her for the disappointment of not reading the letter that

she was positively sure came to Mr. Reed by the same steamer.

The full story of Donald's journey, with all its varied incidents up to

this period, would be too long to tell here. But the main points must be

mentioned.

Immediately upon landing at Liverpool, Donald had begun his search for

the missing Ellen Lee, who, if she could be found, surely would be able

to help him, he thought. From all that Mr. Reed had been able to learn

previously, she undoubtedly had been Mrs. Wolcott Reed's maid, and had

taken charge of the twins on board of the fated vessel. Soon after the

shipwreck she had been traced to Liverpool, as the reader knows, and had

disappeared at that time, before Mr. Reed's clerk, Henry Wakeley, could

see her. But fifteen years had elapsed since then. Donald found the

house in Liverpool where she had been, but could gain there no

information whatever. The house had changed owners, and its former

occupants had scattered, no one could say whither. But, by a persistent

search among the neighboring houses, he did find a bright motherly

woman, who, more than fifteen years before, had come, a bride, to live

in an opposite house, and who well remembered a tall, dark-complexioned

young woman sitting one night on the steps of the shabby boarding-house

over the way. Some one had told her that this young woman had just been

saved from a shipwreck, and had lost everything but the clothes she

wore; and from sheer sympathy she, the young wife, had gone across the

street to speak to her. She had found her, at first, sullen and

uncommunicative. "The girl was a foreigner," said the long-ago bride,

now a blooming matron with four children. "Leastwise, though she

understood me and gave me short answers in English, it struck me she was

French-born. Her black stuff gown was dreadful torn and ruined by the

sea-water, sir, and so, as I was about her height, I made bold to offer

her one of mine in its place. I had a plenty then, and me and my young

man was accounted comfortable from the start. She shook her head and

muttered something about 'not bein' a beggar,' but do you know, sir,

that the next day she come over to me, as I was knitting at my little

window, and says she, 'I go on to London,' she says, 'and I'll take that

now, if you be pleased,' or something that way, I don't remember her

words; and so I showed her into my back room and put the fresh print

gown on her. I can see her now a-takin' the things out of her own gown

and pinning them so careful into the new pocket, because it wasn't so

deep and safe as the one in her old gown was; and then, tearin' off

loose tatters of the black skirt and throwing them down careless-like,

she rolled it up tight, and went off with it, a-noddin' her head and

a-maircying me in French, as pretty as could be. I can't bring to mind a

feature of her, exceptin' the thick, black hair, and her bein' about my

own size. I was slender then, young master; fifteen years makes--"

"And those bits of the old gown," interrupted Donald eagerly, "where are

they? Did you save them?"

"Laws, no, young gentleman, not I. They went into my rag-bag, like as

not, and are all thrown away and lost, sir, many a day agone, for that

matter."

"I am sorry," said Donald. "Even a scrap of her gown might possibly be

of value to me."

"Was she belonging to your family?" asked the woman, doubtfully.

Donald partly explained why he wished to find Ellen Lee; and asked if

the girl had said anything to her of the wreck, or of two babies.

"Not a word, sir, not a word; though I tried to draw her into talkin'.

It's very little she said, at best; she was a-grumpy-like."

"What about that rag-bag?" asked Donald, returning to his former train

of thought. "Have you the same one yet?"

"That I have," she answered, laughing; "and likely to have it for many a

year to come. My good mother made it for me when I was married, and so

I've kept it and patched it till it's like Joseph's coat; and useful

enough it's been, too--holding many a bit that's done service to me and

my little romps. 'Keep a thing seven year,' my mother used to say, 'keep

it seven year an' turn it, an' seven year again, an' it'll come into

play at last.'"

"Why may you not have saved that tatter of the old gown twice seven

years, then?" persisted Donald.

"Why, bless you, young sir, there's no knowin' as to that. But you

couldn't find it, if I had. For why? the black pieces, good, bad, and

indifferent, are all in one roll together, and you nor I couldn't tell

which it was."

"Likely enough," said Donald, in a disappointed tone; "and yet, could

you--that is--really, if you wouldn't mind, I'd thank you very much if

we could look through that rag-bag together."

"Mercy on us!" exclaimed the woman, seized with a sudden dread that her

young visitor might not be in his right senses.

"If I could find those pieces of black stuff," he urged, significantly,

"it would be worth a golden guinea to me."

Sure, now, that he was a downright lunatic, she moved back from him with

a frightened gesture; but glancing again at his bright, manly face, she

said in a different tone:

"And it would be worth a golden guinea to _me_, young master, just to

have the joy of finding them for you. Step right into this room, sir,

and you, Nancy and Tom" (to a shy little pair who had been sitting,

unobserved, on the lowest step of the clean, bare stairway), "you run up

and drag the old piece-bag down to Mother. You shall have your way,

young gentleman--though it's the oddest thing that ever happened to me."

The huge bag soon came tumbling down the stairs, with soft thuds; but

the little forms that, for the time, had given it life and motion, did

not appear. Donald gladly drew it into the little room, where his

hostess soon extracted from its depths a portly black roll.

Alas! To the boyish mind a bundle made of scores of different sorts of

black pieces rolled together is anything but expressive. On first

opening it, Donald looked hopelessly at the motley heap; but the kind

woman helped him somewhat by rapidly throwing piece after piece aside,

with, "That can't be it--that's like little Tom's trousers;" "Nor

that,--that's what I wore for poor mother;" "Nor that--that's to mend my

John's Sunday coat;" and so on, till there were not more than a dozen

scraps left. Of these, three showed that they had been cut with a pair

of scissors, but the others were torn pieces, and of different kinds of

black goods. Don felt these pieces, held them up to the light, and in

despair, was just going to beg her to let him have them all for future

investigation, when his face suddenly brightened.

Putting one of the pieces between his lips, he shook his head with

rather a disgusted expression, as though the flavor were anything but

agreeable, then tried another and another (the woman meantime regarding

him with speechless amazement), till at last, holding out a strip and

smacking his lips, he exclaimed:

"I have it! This is it! It's as salt as brine!"

"Good land!" she cried; "salt! who ever heard of such a thing,--and in

my rag-bag? How could that be?"

Don paid no attention to her. Tasting another piece, that proved on

closer examination to be of the same material, he found it to be equally

salt.

His face displayed a comical mixture of nausea and delight as he sprang

to his feet, crying out:

"Oh! ma'am, I can never thank you enough. These are the pieces of Ellen

Lee's gown, I am confident--unless they have been salted in some way

since you've had them."

"Not they, sir; I can warrant that. But who under the canopy ever

thought of the taste of a shipwrecked gown before!"

"Smell these," he said, holding the pieces toward her. "Don't you notice

a sort of salt-sea odor about them?"

"Not a bit," she answered, emphatically, shaking her head. Then, still

cautiously sniffing at the pieces, she added: "Indeed and I _do_ fancy

so now. It's faint, but it's there, sir. Fifteen years ago! How salt

does cling to things! The poor woman must have been pulled out of the

very sea!"

"That doesn't follow," remarked Donald: "her skirt might have been

soaked by the splashing of the waves after she was let down into the

small boat."

Donald talked a while longer with his new acquaintance, but finally

bade her good-day, first, however, writing down the number of her house,

and giving her his address, and begging her to let him know if, at any

time, she and her husband should move from that neighborhood.

"Should _what_, sir?"

"Should _move_--go to live in another place."

"Not we," she replied, proudly. "We live here, we do sir, John and

myself, and the four children. His work's near by, and here we'll be for

many's the day yet, the Lord willing. No, _no_, please never think of

such a thing as that," she continued, as Donald diffidently thrust his

hand into his pocket. "Take the cloth with you, sir, and welcome; but my

children shall never have it to say that their mother took pay for three

old pieces of cloth--no, nor for showing kindness either" (as Don

politely put in a word), "above all things, not for kindness. God bless

you, young master, an' help you in findin' her--that's all I can say,

and a good-day to you."

"That French nurse probably went home again to France," mused Donald,

after gratefully taking leave of the good woman and her rag-bag. "As we

twins were born at Aix-la-Chapelle, in Prussia, most likely mother

obtained a nurse there. But it needn't have been a Prussian nurse. It

was this same French girl, I warrant. Yes, and this French nurse very

naturally found her way back to France after she was landed at

Liverpool. But, for all that, I _may_ find some clew to her at

Aix-la-Chapelle."

Before going to that interesting old Prussian city, however, he decided

to proceed to London and see what could be ascertained there. In London,

though he obtained the aid of one James Wogg, a detective, he could find

no trace of the missing Ellen Lee. But the detective's quick sense drew

enough from Donald's story of the buxom matron and the two gowns to

warrant his going to Liverpool, "if the young gent so ordered, to work

up the search."

"Had the young gent thought to ask for a bit like the new gown that was

put onto Ellen Lee? No? Well, that always was the way with

unprofessionals--not to say the young gent hadn't been uncommon sharp,

as it was."

Donald, pocketing his share of the compliment, heartily accepted the

detective's services, after making a careful agreement as to the scale

of expenses, and giving, by the aid of his guide-book, the name of the

hotel in Aix-la-Chapelle where a letter from the detective would reach

him. He also prepared an advertisement "on a new principle," as he

explained to the detective, very much to that worthy's admiration.

"Ellen Lee has been advertised for again and again," he said, "and

promised to be told 'something to her advantage;' but if still alive,

she evidently has some reason for hiding. It is possible that it might

have been she who threw the two babies from the sinking ship into the

little boat, and as news of the rescue of all in that boat may never

have reached her, she all this time may have feared that she would be

blamed or made to suffer in some way for what she had done. I mean to

advertise," continued Donald to the detective, "that information is

wanted of a Frenchwoman, Ellen Lee, by the two babies _whose lives she

saved_ at sea, and who, by addressing so-and-so, can learn of something

to her advantage,--and we'll see what will come of it."

"Not so," suggested Mr. Wogg. "It's a good dodge; but say, rather, 'by

two young persons whose lives she saved when they were babies;' there's

more force to it that way. And leave out 'at sea;' it gives too much to

the other party. Best have 'em address 'Mr. James Wogg, Old Bailey, N.

London.'" But Donald would not agree to this last point.

Consequently, after much painstaking on the part of Donald and Mr. Wogg,

the following advertisement appeared in the London and Liverpool

papers:--

IF ELLEN LEE, A FRENCHWOMAN, WILL KINDLY SEND her

address to D. R., in care of Dubigk's Hotel,

Aix-la-Chapelle, Prussia, she shall receive the

grateful thanks of two young persons whose lives

she saved when they were infants, and hear of

something greatly to her advantage.

Again Ellen Lees, evidently not French, came into view, lured by the

vague terms of the advertisement, but as quickly disappeared under the

detective's searching inspection; and again it seemed as if that

particular Ellen Lee, as Mr. Reed had surmised, had vanished from the

earth. But Mr. Wogg assured his client that it took time for an

advertisement to make its way into the rural districts of England, and

he must be patient.

Donald, therefore, proceeded at once to Dover, on the English coast,

thence sailed over to Ostend, in Belgium, and from there went by railway

to his birthplace, Aix-la-Chapelle. As his parents had settled there

three months before his mother started for home, he felt that, in every

respect, this was the most promising place for his search. He had called

upon George Robertson's few family connections in London, but they knew

very little about that gentleman, excepting that when very young he had

gone to America to seek his fortune; that in time he had married a

well-to-do young American lady and had then come back to settle in

England; that he soon had lost everything, being very reckless and

unfortunate in business; that his wife, in her poverty, had received

help from somebody travelling in Prussia; and that the couple had been

sent for to meet this friend or relative at Havre, when his little girl

was not two months old, and all had sailed for America together. Donald

knew as much as this already. If, fifteen years before, they could give

Mr. Reed no description of the baby, they certainly could give Donald no

satisfaction now. So far from gathering from them any new facts of

importance, in regard to their lost kinsman and his wife and child, they

had all this time, as Donald wrote to Mr. Reed, been very active in

forgetting him and his affairs. Still, Donald succeeded in reviving

their old promise that, if anything _should_ turn up that would throw

any light on the history of "poor Robertson's" family, they would lose

no time in communicating the fact--this time to Mr. Reed's nephew,

Donald.

No word had been heard from them up to the evening that Dorothy's

letter arrived at Aix-la-Chapelle; no satisfactory response, either, had

been called forth by the Ellen Lee advertisement; and Donald, who had

had, as we know, a disappointing interview with his father's physician,

was weary and almost discouraged. Moreover, every effort to find the

store at which the gold chain had been purchased was in vain. But now

that Dorothy's letter had come, bringing him new energy and courage, the

outlook was brighter. There still were many plans to try. Surely some of

them must succeed. In the first place, he would translate his Ellen-Lee

advertisement into French, and insert it in Paris and Aix-la-Chapelle

newspapers. Strange that no one had thought of doing this before. Then

he would--no, he wouldn't--but, on the other hand, why not send--And at

this misty point of his meditations he fell asleep, to dream, not as one

would suppose, of Dorothy, but of the grand Cathedral standing in place

of the Chapel from which this special Aix obtained its name; of the

wonderful hot springs in the public street; of the baths, the music, and

the general stir and brightness of this fascinating old Prussian city.

CHAPTER XXXII.

DONALD MAKES A DISCOVERY.

THE new French advertisement and a companion to it, printed in German,

were duly issued; but, alas! nothing came from them. However, Donald

carefully preserved the black pieces he had obtained in Liverpool,

trusting that, in some way, they yet might be of service to him. He now

visited the shops, examined old hotel registers, and hunted up persons

whose address he had obtained from his uncle, or from the owners of the

"Cumberland." The few of these that were to be found could, after all,

but repeat what they remembered of the account they had given to Mr.

Reed and Henry Wakeley many years before.

Don found in an old book of one of the hotels at Aix-la-Chapelle the

names of Mr. and Mrs. Wolcott Reed on the list of arrivals,--no mention

of a maid or of a child. Then, in the books of another hotel whither

they had moved, he found a settlement for board of Wolcott Reed, wife,

and maid. At the same hotel a later entry recorded that Mrs. Wolcott

Reed (widow), nurse, and two infants had left for France, and letters

for her were to be forwarded to Havre. There were several entries

concerning settlements for board and other expenses, but these told

Donald nothing new. Finally, he resolved to follow as nearly as he could

the course his mother was known to have taken from Aix-la-Chapelle to

Havre, where she was joined by Mr. and Mrs. Robertson and their baby

daughter, a few days before the party set sail from that French port for

New York.

Yes, at Havre he would be sure to gain some information. If need be, he

could settle there for a while, and patiently follow every possible clew

that presented itself. Perhaps the chain had been purchased there. What

more likely, he thought, than that, just before sailing, his mother had

bought the pretty little trinket as a parting souvenir? The question

was, had she got it for her own little twin-daughter, or for Aunt Kate's

baby? That point remained to be settled. Taking his usual precaution of

leaving behind him an address, to which all coming messages or letters

from Mr. Wogg or others could be forwarded, Donald bade farewell to

Aix-la-Chapelle, and, disregarding every temptation to stop along the

way, hurried on, past famous old cities, that, under other

circumstances, would have been of great interest to him.

"We, all three, can come here together, some time, and see the sights,"

he thought to himself; "now I can attend only to the business that

brought me over here."

At Havre he visited the leading shops where jewelry and fancy goods

were sold or manufactured. These were not numerous, and some of them had

not been in existence fifteen years before, at the time when the

sad-hearted widow and her party were there. There was no distinctive

maker's mark on the necklace from which Donald had hoped so much, and no

one knew anything about it, nor cared to give it any attention, unless

the young gentleman wished to sell it. Then they might give a trifle. It

was not a very rare antique, they said, valuable from its age; jewelry

simply out of date was worth only its weight, and a little chain like

this was a mere nothing. As Donald was returning to his hotel, weary and

inclined to be dispirited, he roused himself to look for _Rue de

Corderie, numero 47_, or, as we Americans would say, Number 47 Corderie

Street. As this house is famous as the birthplace of Bernardin de St.

Pierre, author of "Paul and Virginia," Donald wished to see it for

himself, and also to be able to describe it to Dorothy. He did not visit

it on that day, however; for on his way thither his attention was

arrested by a very small shop which he had not noticed before, and

which, in the new-looking city of Havre, appeared to be fully a century

old. Entering, he was struck with the oddity of its interior. The place

was small, not larger than the smallest room at Lakewood, and though its

front window displayed only watches, and a notice in French and English

that Monsieur Bajeau repaired jewelry at short notice, it was so crowded

with rare furniture and bric-a-brac that Donald, for a moment, thought

he had entered the wrong shop. But, no! There hung the watches, in full

sight, and a bright-faced old man in a black skull-cap was industriously

repairing a bracelet.

"May I see the proprietor of this store, please?" asked Donald,

politely.

"Oui, Monsieur," replied the old man, with equal courtesy, rising and

stepping forward. "Je suis--I am ze poprietaire, je ne comprend pas. I

no speak ze Ingleesh. Parlez-vous Francais--eh?"

"Oh, yes," said Donald, too full of his errand to be conscious that he

was not speaking French, as he carefully took a little red velvet case

from an inside pocket, "I wished to show you this necklace--to ask if

you--"

The old man listened with rather an aggrieved air. "Ah! Eh! I sall

re-paire it, you say?" then adding wistfully, "You no speak ze French?"

"Oui, oui, Monsieur,--pardonnez," said Donald, thus reminded. From that

moment he and the now radiant Monsieur Bajeau got on finely together,

for Donald's French was much better than Monsieur's English; and, in

truth, the young man was very willing to practise speaking it in the

retirement of this quaint little shop. Their conversation shall be

translated here, however.

"Have you ever seen this before, sir?" asked Donald, taking the precious

necklace from the box and handing it to him over the little counter.

"No," answered the shop-keeper, shaking his head as he took the trinket.

"Ah! that is very pretty. No, not a very old chain. It is modern, but

very odd--very fine--unique, we say. Here are letters," as he turned the

clasp and examined its under side. "What are they? They are so small.

Your young eyes are sharp. Eh?" Here Monsieur bent his head and looked

inquiringly at Donald from over his spectacles.

"D. R.," said Don.

"Ah, yes! D. R.; now I see," as he turned them to the light. "D.

R.,--that is strange! Now, I think I have seen those same engraved

letters before. Why, my young friend, as I look at this little chain,

something carries the years away and I am a younger man. It brings very

much to mind--Hold!--No, it is all gone now. I must have made a

mistake."

Donald's heart beat faster.

"Did _you_ make the chain?" he asked.

"No, no, never. I never made a chain like it--but I have seen that chain

before. The clasp is very--very--You know how it opens?"

"It is rusty inside," explained Donald, leaning forward anxiously, lest

it should be injured. "We need not open it." Then controlling his

excitement, he asked as calmly as he could:

"You have seen it before, Monsieur?"

"I have seen it. Where is the key?"

"The key, Monsieur? What do you mean?"

"The key that opens the clasp," returned the Frenchman, with sudden

impatience. This American boy began to appear rather stupid in

Monsieur's eyes. Donald looked at him in amazement.

"Does it lock?"

"Does it lock?" echoed Monsieur. "Why, see here;" and with these words

he tried to press the upper part of the clasp aside. It stuck at first,

but finally yielded, sliding around from the main part on an invisible

little pivot, and disclosing a very small key-hole.

Donald stared at it in hopeful bewilderment. Evidently his uncle had

failed to find this key-hole, so deftly concealed!

The old man eyed his visitor shrewdly. Having been for some time a

dealer in rare bric-a-brac, he prided himself on being up to the tricks

of persons who had second-hand treasures to sell.

"Is this chain yours?" he asked, coldly. "Do you bring it to sell to me?

All this is very strange. I wish I could remember--"

"Oh, no, indeed. Not to sell. Yes, the chain is mine, my sister's--my

uncle's, I mean--in America."

Monsieur drew back with added distrust, but he was reassured by Donald's

earnest tone. "Oh, Monsieur, pray recall all you can about this matter.

I cannot tell you how important it is to me--how anxious I am to hear!"

"Young man, your face is pale; you are in trouble. Come in and sit

down," leading the way into a small room behind the shop. "As for this

necklace, there is something--but I cannot think; it is something in the

past years that will not come back--Ah! I hear a customer; I must go.

Pardon me, I will return presently."

So saying, Monsieur left him. Bending slightly and taking short, quick

steps, he hurried into the shop. Donald thought the old man was gone for

an hour, though it really was only five minutes. But it had given him an

opportunity to collect his thoughts, and when Monsieur returned, Donald

was ready with a question:

"Perhaps a lady--a widow--brought the chain to you long ago, sir?"

[Illustration: MONSIEUR BAJEAU BECOMES INTERESTED IN DONALD'S CHAIN.]

"A widow!" exclaimed Monsieur, brightening, "a widow dressed in

black--yes, it comes back to me--a day, ten, twenty years ago--I see it

all! A lady--two ladies--no, one was a servant, a genteel nurse; both

wore black, and there was a little baby--two little babies--very little;

I see them now."

"Two!" exclaimed Donald, half wild with eagerness.

"Yes, two pink little fellows."

"Pink!" In a flash, Donald remembered the tiny pink sacque, now in his

valise at the hotel.

"Yes, pink little faces, with lace all around--very droll--the littlest

babies I ever saw taken into the street. Well, the pretty lady in black

carried one, and the nurse--she was a tall woman--carried the other."

"Yes, yes, please," urged Donald. He longed to help Monsieur on with the

account, but it would be better, he knew, to let him take his own way.

It all came out in time, little by little, but complete, at last. The

widow lady had gone to the old man's shop, with two infants and a tall

nurse. Taking from her purse a tiny gold key, she had unlocked a

necklace from one of the babies' necks, and requested Monsieur Bajeau to

engrave a name on the under side of its small square clasp.

"A name?" asked Donald, thinking of the two initials.

"Yes, a name--a girl's name," continued the old man, rubbing his chin

and speaking slowly, as if trying to recollect. "Well, no matter.

Intending to engrave the name later in the afternoon, I wrote it down in

my order-book, and asked the lady for her address, so that I might send

the chain to her the next day. But, no; she would not leave it. She must

have the name engraved at once, right away, and must put the necklace

herself on her little daughter. She would wait. Ah, how it all comes

back to me! Well, I wished to obey the lady, and so set to work. But I

saw immediately there was not space enough for the whole name. She was

very sorry, poor lady, and then she said I should put on the two letters

D. R. There they are, you see, my own work--you see that? And she paid

me, and locked the chain on the baby's neck again--ah me! it is so

strange!--and she went away. That is all I know."

He had spoken the last few sentences rapidly, after Donald had asked,

with eagerness, "What name, Monsieur? What was the name, please, the

name that the lady wished you to engrave?"

Now the old man, hardly pausing, deliberately went back to Don's

question.

"The name? the name?--I cannot quite say."

"Was it--Delia?" suggested Donald, faintly.

"Yes, Delia. That was the name."

If Donald had been struck, he scarcely could have been more stunned.

"Wait!" exclaimed Monsieur. "We shall see. I will search the old books.

Do you know the year? 1850?--60? what?"

"1859, November," said Donald, wearily, his joy all turned to misgiving.

"Ha! Now we can be sure! Come into the shop. Your young legs can mount

these steps. If you please, hand down the book for 1859; you see it on

the back. Ah, how dusty! I have kept them so long. Now"--taking the

volume from Donald's trembling hands--"we shall see."

Don leaned over him, as the old man, mumbling softly to himself,

examined page after page.

"July, August, September--ah, I was a very busy man in those days--plenty

to do with my hands, but not making money as I have been since--different

line of business for the most part--October--November--here it is."

Donald leaned closer. He gave a sudden cry. Yes, there it was--a hasty

memorandum; part of the writing was unintelligible to him, but the main

word stood clear and distinct.

It was DOROTHY.

"Ah! Dorothy," echoed the other. "Yes, that was it. I told you so."

"You said Delia," suggested Don.

The old man gave a satisfied nod. "Yes, Delia."

"But it's _Dorothy_," insisted Donald firmly, and with gladness in his

tone that made the old man smile in sympathy. "Dorothy, as plain as

day."

To Monsieur Bajeau the precise name was of little consequence, but he

adjusted his glasses and looked at the book again.

"Yes--Dorothy. So it is. A pretty name. I am glad, my friend, if you

are pleased." Here Monsieur shook Donald's hand warmly. "The name in my

book is certainly correct. I would be sure to write just what the lady

told me." An antique clock behind them struck "two." "Ah, it is time for

me to eat something. Will you stay and take coffee with me, my friend?

We are not strangers now."

Strangers indeed! Donald fairly loved the man. He did not accept the

invitation, but thanking him again and again, agreed to return in the

evening; for Monsieur Bajeau wished to know more of the strange story.

Donald walked back to the hotel lightly as though treading the air.

Everything looked bright to him. Havre, he perceived, was one of the

most delightful cities in the world. He felt like sending a cable

message home about the chain, but on second thought resolved to be

cautious. It would not do to raise hopes that might yet be disappointed.

It was just possible that after that visit to Monsieur Bajeau, his

mother, for some reason, had transferred the necklace to baby Delia's

neck. He would wait. His work was not yet finished; but he had made a

splendid beginning.

More than one tourist hurrying through Havre that day, bound for the

steamer, or for that pride of the city, the hill of Ingouville, to enjoy

the superb view, noticed the young lad's joyous face and buoyant step as

he passed by.

Donald walked briskly into the hotel, intent upon writing a cheery

letter home; but, from habit, he stopped at the desk to ask if there was

anything for him.

"Mr. D. Reed?" asked the hotel clerk, pointing to a bulky envelope half

covered with postage stamps.

"That's my name," returned the happy boy, as he hurriedly tore open one

end of the envelope. "Whew! Six!"

There were indeed six letters; and all had been forwarded from

Aix-la-Chapelle.

One was from Mr. Wogg, enclosing a bit of printed calico and a soiled

memorandum, stating that he sent herewith a piece like the gown which

the party in Liverpool had given to the young Frenchwoman fifteen years

before. He had obtained it, Mr. Wogg said, "from an old patch-work quilt

in the possession of the party, and had paid said party one crown for

the same." Two letters were from Mr. Reed and Dorothy, and the rest,

three in number--addressed to D. R., in care of Dubigk's Hotel,

Aix-la-Chapelle--were from three persons with very different

handwritings, but each was signed "Ellen Lee."

CHAPTER XXXIII.

AN IMPORTANT INTERVIEW.

DONALD, going to his room, laid the three Ellen-Lee letters upon the

table before him and surveyed the situation That only one of them could

be from the right Ellen Lee seemed evident; but which one? That was the

question.

"This cannot be it," thought Donald, as he took up a badly written and

much blotted sheet. "It is English-French, and evidently is in the

handwriting of a man. Well, this brilliant person requests me to send

one hundred francs to pay _her_ expenses to Aix-la-Chapelle, and _she_

will then prove _her_ identity and receive the grateful reward. Thank

you, my good man!--not if the court knows itself. We'll lay you aside

for the present."

The next was from a woman--a _bonne_--who stated that by good nursing

she had saved so many babies' lives in her day that she could not be

sure which two babies this very kind "D. R." alluded to, but her name

was Madame L. N. Lit. A wise friend had told her of this advertisement,

and explained that as L. N. Lit in French and Ellen Lee in English had

exactly the same sound, the inquirer probably was a native of Great

Britain, and had made a very natural mistake in writing her name Ellen

Lee. Therefore she had much pleasure in informing the kind advertiser

that at present her address was No. -- Rue St. Armand, Rouen, where she

was well known, and that she would be truly happy to hear of something

to her advantage. Donald shook his head very doubtfully, as he laid this

letter aside. But the next he read twice, and even then he did not lay

it down until he had read it again. It was a neatly written little note,

and simply stated, in French, that D. R. could see Ellen Lee by calling

at No.--Rue Soudiere, Paris, and making inquiry for Madame Rene.

"An honest little note," was Donald's verdict, after carefully

scrutinizing it, "and worth following up. The others can wait. I shall

go to Paris and look up this Madame Rene. Yes, she shall receive a visit

from his majesty."

Don was in high spirits, you see,--and no wonder. He already had

accomplished a splendid day's work in visiting M. Bajeau, and here was

at least a promising result from his advertisement. He longed to rush

back at once to the quaint little shop, but he had been asked to come in

the evening, and the old gentleman had a certain dignity of manner that

Don respected. He felt that he must be patient and await the appointed

hour.

It came at last, and by that time Donald had enjoyed a hearty meal,

written to Mr. Wogg, and made all needed preparations to take the

earliest train for Paris the next day.

M. Bajeau--good old man!--was made happy as a boy by the sight of Ellen

Lee's letter.

"It is great good luck, my friend, that it should come to you," he said,

in rapid French, his old cheeks faintly flushing with pleasure. "Now,

you take my word, if she is tall, dark, fine-looking--this Madame Rene,

eh?--you have found the very _bonne_ who came to my little shop with the

widow lady. Ask her about me--if she remember, eh? how I engraved the

two letters with my own hand, while she stood by, holding the pink-faced

baby--ha! ha!" (Here Monsieur rubbed his hands.) "She will remember! She

will prove what I say, without doubt. She will know about the key to the

necklace--yes, and the lock that has the air of a clasp. Let me see it

again. You have it with you?"

Donald displayed the treasure promptly.

"Stay," said Monsieur. "I will, with your permission, try and open the

little lock for you. I shall be very careful."

"No, no--thank you!" said Donald, quickly, as M. Bajeau took up a

delicate tool. "I would rather wait till I have tried to find the key,

and until my uncle and--and sister have seen it again just as it is. My

uncle, I am positive, never discovered that the top of the clasp could

be slid around in this way. The key itself may come to light yet--who

knows? Now, Monsieur, will you do me a great favor?"

"Name it," replied the old man, eying him not unkindly.

"Will you allow me to cut that page out of your order-book?"

"Certainly, my boy; certainly, and with pleasure," said M. Bajeau.

No sooner said than done. Donald, who had his penknife ready, delighted

M. Bajeau with his clever way of cutting out the page close to its inner

side, and yet in a zigzag line, so that at any time afterward the paper

could be fitted into its place in the book, in case it should be

necessary to prove its identity.

Next the story of the chain was retold with great care, and written down

by Don as it came from Monsieur's lips, word for word, and signed by M.

Bajeau with trembling nicety. "Stay!" he exclaimed, as he laid down the

pen. "It will be right for me to certify to this in legal form. Early in

the morning, we can go to my good neighbor the notary and sign the

paper. In a day or so we shall know whether this Madame Rene is Ellen

Lee. If so, she will remember that hour spent in the shop of the

watch-mender Bajeau, ha! ha!"

Monsieur could afford to laugh, for, though he still repaired watches,

he had risen somewhat in worldly success and dignity since that day. An

American, under the same circumstances, would by this time have had a

showy bric-a-brac establishment, with a large sign over the door. But

Monsieur Bajeau was content with his old shop, well satisfied to know

the value of the treasures of jewelry and rare furniture which he bought

and sold.

The visit to the notary over, Donald took his leave, promising the old

man to come and bid him good-by before sailing for America, and, if

possible, to bring Ellen Lee with him to Monsieur Bajeau's shop.

Late in the afternoon of the same day, after a dusty seven hours' ride

in a railway coach, he found himself in Paris, on the way to the Rue

Soudiere, in search of Madame Rene.

It was something beside the effort of mounting five flights of stairs

that caused his heart to beat violently when, after inquiring at every

landing-place on his way up, he finally knocked at a small door on the

very top story.

A short, middle-aged woman, with pale blue eyes and scanty gray hair,

opened the door.

"Is this Madame Rene?" asked Donald, devoutly hoping that she would say

"No."

The woman nodded, at the same time regarding him with suspicion, and not

opening the door wide enough for him to enter.

"You replied to an advertisement, I believe?" began Donald again, bowing

politely; but noting the woman's blank reception of his English, he

repeated the inquiry in French. The door opened wide; the woman smiled a

smile that might have been agreeable but for the lonely effect of her

solitary front tooth, and then courteously invited her visitor to enter

and be seated.

Poor Donald, wishing that he were many miles away, and convinced that

nothing could come of an interview with this short, stout, pale-eyed

"Ellen Lee," took a chair and waited resignedly for Madame to speak.

"I have advertised," she said in French, "and am ready to begin work."

Donald looked at her inquiringly.

"Perhaps Madame, the young gentleman's mother," she suggested, "wishes a

fine pastry-cook at once?"

"A pastry-cook!" exclaimed Donald, in despair. "I came to see Ellen Lee,

or rather to inquire for Madame Rene. Is your name Rene?"

"I am Madame Rene," a woman answered, in well-spoken English, as she

stepped forward from a dark corner of the room, where she had been

sitting unobserved by Donald. "Who is it wishes to see Ellen Lee?"

"The boy whose life she saved!" said Donald, rising to his feet and

holding out his hand, unable in his excitement to be as guarded as he

had intended to be. A glance had convinced him that this was Ellen Lee,

indeed. The woman, tall, dark-eyed, stately, very genteel in spite of

evident poverty, was about thirty-five years of age. There was no

mistaking the sudden joy in her care-worn face. She seized his hand,

without a word; then, as if recollecting herself, and feeling that she

must be more cautious, she eyed him sharply, saying:

"And the other? the brother? There were two. Is he living?"

For a second Donald's heart sank; but he quickly recovered himself.

Perhaps she was trying tricks upon him; if so, he must defend himself as

well as he could. So he answered, carelessly, but heartily, "Oh! he's

alive and well, thank you, and thanks to you."

This time they looked into each other's eyes--she, with a sudden

expression of disappointment, for would-be shrewd people are apt to give

little credit to others for equal shrewdness.

"Did you never have a sister?" she asked, with some hesitation.

"Oh, yes!" he replied, "but I must ask you now to tell me something of

Ellen Lee, and how she saved us. I can assure you of one thing--I am

alive and grateful. Pray tell me your story with perfect frankness. In

the first place,--are you and Ellen Lee the same?"

"Yes."

"And do you know _my_ name?"

"Indeed I do," she said, a slow smile coming into her face. "I will be

frank with you. If you are the person I believe you to be, your name is

Donald Reed."

"Good!" he exclaimed, joyfully; "and the other--what was--"

"_His_ name?" she interrupted, again smiling. "_His_ name was Dorothy

Reed, sir! They were twins--a beautiful boy and girl."

To the latest day of his life Donald never will forget that moment; and

he never will understand why he did not jump to his feet, grasp her

hand, ask her dozens of questions at once, and finally implore her to

tell him what he could do to prove his gratitude. He had, in fancy,

acted out just such a scene while on his hopeful way to Paris. But, no.

In reality, he just drew his chair a little nearer hers,--feeling, as he

afterwards told his uncle, thoroughly comfortable,--and in the quietest

possible way assured her that she was right as to the boy's name, but,

to his mind, it would be very difficult for her to say which little girl

she had saved--whether it was the baby-sister or the baby-cousin.

This was a piece of diplomacy on his part that would have delighted Mr.

Wogg. True, he would prefer to be entirely frank on all occasions, but,

in this instance, he felt that Mr. Wogg would highly disapprove of his

"giving the case away" by letting the woman know that he hoped to

identify Dorothy as his sister. What if Madame Rene, in the hope of more

surely "hearing of something greatly to her advantage," were to favor

his desire that the rescued baby should be Dorothy and not Delia?

"What do you mean?" asked Madame Rene.

"I mean, that possibly the little girl you saved was my cousin and not

my sister," he replied, boldly.

Ellen Lee shrank from him a moment, and then almost angrily said:

"Why not your sister? Ah, I understand!--you would then be sole heir.

But I must tell the truth, young gentleman; so much has been on my

conscience all these years that I wish to have nothing left to reproach

me. There was a time when, to get a reward, I might, perhaps, have been

willing to say that the other rescued baby was your cousin, but now my

heart is better. Truth is truth. I held little Donald and Dorothy both

in these arms that terrible night. If I saved any little girl, it was

Dorothy; and Dorothy was Donald Reed's twin sister."

Donald gave an exclamation of delight, but he checked himself as he

glanced toward the short, light-haired Madame, whose peculiar appearance

had at first threatened to blight his expectations. She was now seated

by the small window, industriously mending a coarse woollen stocking,

and evidently caring very little for the visitor, as he was not in

search of a pastry-cook.

"We need not mind her," Madam Rene explained. "Marie Dubois is a good,

dull-witted soul, who stays here with me when she is out of a situation.

She cannot understand a word of English. We have decided to separate

soon, and to leave these lodgings. I cannot make enough money with my

needle to live here; and so we must both go out and work--I as a

sewing-woman, and she as a cook. Ah me! In the years gone by I hoped to

go to America and live with that lovely lady, your poor mother."

"Do you remember her well?" asked Donald, hesitating as to which one of

a crowd of questions he should ask first.

"Perfectly, sir. She was very handsome. Ah me! and so good, so grand!

The other lady--her husband's sister, I think, was very pretty, very

sweet and gentle; but _my_ lady was like a queen. I can see a trace of

her features--just a little--in yours, Mr.--Mr. Reed. I did not at

first; but the likeness grows on me."

"And this?" asked Donald, taking a photograph from his pocket. "Do you

see any resemblance here to my mother?"

She held it up to the light, and looked at it long and wistfully. "Poor

lady!" she said at last.

"Poor lady?" echoed Donald, rather amused at hearing his bright little

Dorry spoken of in that way; "she is barely sixteen."

"Ah, no! It is the mother I am thinking of. How proud and happy she

would be now with this beautiful daughter! For surely this _is_ your

sister's likeness, sir?"

Ellen Lee looked up quickly, but, reassured by Donald's prompt "Yes,

indeed," she again studied the picture.

It was one that he had carried about with him ever since he left

home--putting it upon the wall[1] or the bureau of his room, wherever he

had chanced to lodge; and it showed Dorothy just as she looked the day

before he sailed. He had gone with her to the photographer's to have it

taken, and for his sake she had tried to forget that they were so

suddenly to say "good-by."

"Ah, what a bright, happy face! A blessed day indeed it would be to me

if I could see you two, grown to a beautiful young lady and gentleman,

standing together--"

"That you _shall_ see," responded Donald, heartily, not because he

accepted the title of beautiful young gentleman, but because his heart

was full of joy to think of the happy days to come, when the shadow of

doubt and mystery would be forever lifted from the home at Lakewood.

"Is she coming? Is she here?" cried Madame Rene, who, misinterpreting

Donald's words, had risen to her feet, half expecting to see the young

girl enter the room.

"No. But depend upon it, you will go there," said Don. "You must carry

out the dream of your youth, and begin life in America. My uncle surely

will send for you. You know, I promised that you should hear of

something greatly to your advantage."

"But the ocean," she began, with a show of dread, in spite of the

pleasure that shone in her eyes. "I could never venture upon the great,

black ocean again!"

"It will not be the black ocean this time. It will be the blue ocean,

full of light and promise," said Donald, growing poetic, "and it will

bear you to comfort and prosperity. Dorothy and I will--"

"Dorothy!" cried Ellen Lee. "Yes, I feel as if I could cross two oceans

to see you both together, alive and well, so I could."

At this point Madame Dubois, rousing herself, said, rather querulously,

in her native tongue: "Elise, are you to talk all night? Have you

forgotten that you are to take me to see the lady on the Rue St. Honore

at six?"

"Ah, I did forget," was the reply. "I will go at once, if the young

gentleman will excuse me."

"Certainly," said Donald, rising; "and I shall call again to-morrow, as

I have many things yet to ask you. I'll go now and cable home."

Ellen Lee looked puzzled.

"Can I be forgetting my own language?" she thought to herself. But she

had resolved to be frank with Donald. Had not he and Dorothy already

opened a new life to her? "Cable home?" she repeated. "I do not

understand."

"Why, send a cable message, you know--a message by the ocean telegraph."

"Oh, yes. Bless me! It will be on the other side, too, before one can

wink. It is wonderful; and Mr. Donald,--if I may call you so,--while

you're writing it, would you please, if you wouldn't mind it, send my

love to Miss Dorothy?"

"Good!" cried Donald. "I'll do exactly that. Nothing could be better. It

will tell the story perfectly."

Donald, going down the steep flights of stairs soon afterwards,

intending to return later, longed to send a fine supper to Ellen Lee and

her companion; also beautiful new gowns, furniture, pictures, and

flowers. He felt like a fairy prince, ready to shower benefits upon her,

but he knew that he must be judicious in his kindness, and considerate

of Ellen Lee's feelings. Poor, as she evidently was, she had a proud

spirit, and must not be carelessly rewarded.

* * * * *

Before another night had passed, Uncle George and the anxious-hearted

girl at Lakewood received this message:

[Illustration: ELLEN LEE SENDS LOVE TO DOROTHY.]

FOOTNOTE:

[1] See Frontispiece.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

MADAME RENE TELLS HER STORY.

ON the following day, when Donald again climbed the many flights of

stairs and knocked at her door, he found Madame Rene alone. The

pastry-cook advertisement had succeeded: Marie was gone to exercise her

talents in behalf of a little hotel on the Seine, where, as she had

assured her new employer, she would soon distinguish herself by her

industry and sobriety. The almost empty apartment was perfectly neat.

Madame Rene herself had brushed her threadbare gown with care, and, by

the aid of spotless white collar and cuffs, given herself quite a

holiday appearance. Very soon she and Donald, seated by the shining

little window, were talking together in English and like old friends, as

indeed they were. The reader shall hear her story in her own words,

though not with all the interruptions of conversation under which it was

given.

* * * * *

"It's no wonder you thought me a Frenchwoman, Mr. Donald. Many have

thought the same of me, from the day I grew up. But though I look so

like one, and speak the language readily, I was born in England. I

studied French at school, and liked it best of all my lessons. In fact,

I studied little else, and even spoke it to myself, for there was no

one, excepting the French teacher, who could talk it with me. I never

liked him. He was always pulling my ears and treating me like a child

when I fancied myself almost a woman. Then I took to reading French

stories and romances, and they turned my head. My poor home grew stupid

to me, and I took it into my heart to run away and see if I could not

get to be a great lady. About that time a French family moved into our

neighborhood, and I was proud to talk with the children and to be told

that I spoke 'like a native' (just as if I did!), and that, with my

black hair and gray eyes, I looked like a Normandy girl. This settled

it. I knew my parents never would consent to my leaving home, but I

resolved to 'play' I was French, and get a situation in some English

family as a French nurse--a real Normandy _bonne_ with a high cap. I was

seventeen then. The _bonne_ in the latest romance I had read became a

governess, and then married a marquis, the eldest son of her employer,

and kept her carriage. Why should not some such wonderful thing happen

to me? You see what a silly, wicked girl I was.

"Well, I ran away to another town, took the name of Eloise Louvain (my

real name was Elizabeth Luff), and for a time I kept up my part and

enjoyed it. The parents who engaged me could not speak French, and as

for the children--dear, what a shame it was!--they got all they knew of

the language from me. Then I went to live with Madame Lefevre, a

Parisian. The lady mistrusted my accent when I spoke French to her, and

asked me where I was born; but she seemed to like me for all that, and I

stayed with her until she was taken ill and was ordered to the baths at

Aix-la-Chapelle for cure. She did not get well, poor lady, and before

long I was left in the strange city alone. I had the name of being very

quiet, but I was not so by nature. You see I forced myself to speak only

in French or broken English, and it was not always easy. At last I saw

in a newspaper that a lady in Aix wanted a French maid to go with her to

America. Here was my chance. Why, Mr. Donald, if you'll believe me, I

wasn't sure but that if I went I'd in time be the bride of the President

of America himself! You needn't laugh. Many's the silly girl--yes, and

boy, too, for that matter--who gets ridiculous notions from reading

romantic books. Well, I answered the advertisement, and then, sir, I

became your mother's maid. By this time my French was so good that she

might not have found me out; but she was so lovely, so sweet, and sharp

withal, that I one day told her the whole truth, and it ended in my

writing a letter home by her advice, sending my parents fifty francs,

asking their forgiveness, begging them to consent to my going to America

with my new lady, and telling them that I would send presents home to

them as often as I could. When the answer came, with love from my

mother, and signed 'your affectionate and forgiving father, John Luff,'

I laughed and cried with joy, and forgot that I was a Normandy _bonne_.

And a _bonne_ I was in earnest, for my lady had the prettiest pair of

twins any one could imagine, if I do say it to your face, and such

lovely embroidered dresses, more than a yard long, the sleeves tied with

the sweetest little ribbon bows--"

Here Donald interrupted the narrative: "What color were they, please?"

he asked, at the same time taking out his note-book.

"Pink and blue," was the prompt reply. "Always blue on the boy and pink

on the girl; my lady's orders were very strict on that point."

"Did--did the other baby--little Delia, you know--wear pink bows?"

"Not she; never anything but white, for her mamma insisted that white

was the only thing for a baby."

"What about their hair?" Donald asked, still holding his note-book and

looking at this item: "_Girl's hair, yellow, soft, and curly. Boy's

hair, pale-brown, very scanty._"

"Their hair? Let me see. Why, as I remember, you hadn't any, sir,--at

least, none to speak of; neither had the poor little cousin. But my

little girl--Miss Dorothy, that is--had the most I ever saw on so young

a child; it was golden-yellow, and so curly that it would cling to your

fingers when you touched it. I always hated to put a cap on her, but

Mrs. Reed had them both in caps from the first. So different from the

other lady! She said caps worn all the time were too heating for little

heads, and so her baby never had any; but it wore a loose hood when it

was taken out in the air. I must hurry on with the story. You know the

other baby was never at Aix. We met it and its parents at Havre, when my

lady went there to take the steamer to America. You twins were not two

months old. And a sad day that was indeed! For the good gentleman, your

father--Heaven rest his soul!--died of a fever before you and Miss

Dorothy had been in the world a fortnight. Oh, how my lady and the other

lady cried about it when they came together! I used to feel so sorry

when I saw them grieving, that, to forget it, I'd take you two babies

out, one on each arm, and walk the street up and down in front of the

hotel. I had become acquainted with a young Frenchman, a travelling

photographer; and he, happening to be at Havre, saw me one morning as I

was walking with the babies, and he invited me to go to his place, hard

by, and have my picture taken, for nothing. It was a wilful thing to do

with those two infants, after I had been allowed to walk only a short

distance by the hotel; but it was a temptation, and I went. I wouldn't

put down the babies though, so he had to take my picture sitting on a

rock, with one twin on each arm. If you'll believe it, the babies came

out beautifully in the picture, and I was almost as black as a coal. It

was like a judgment on me, for I knew my lady would think it shocking in

me to carry the two helpless twins to a photographer's."

"But the picture," said Donald, anxiously, "where is it? Have you it

yet?"

"I'll tell you about that soon," Madame Rene answered quickly, as if

unwilling to break the thread of her story. "The dear lady was so kind

that I often had a mind to own up and show her the picture, but the

thought of that ugly black thing sitting up so stiff and holding the

little innocents, kept me back. It's well it did, too,--though it's rare

any good thing comes out of a wrong,--for if I had, the picture would

have gone down with the ship. Well, we sailed a few days after that, and

at first the voyage was pleasant enough, though I had to walk the cabin

with the babies, while my lady lay ill in her berth. The sea almost

always affects the gentry, you know. The other lady was hardier, though

sometimes ailing, and she and her husband tended their baby night and

day, never letting it out of their arms when it was awake. Poor little

thing,--gone these fifteen years!"

"Are you sure the little cousin was lost?" asked Donald, wondering how

she knew.

"Why, Mr. Donald, I drew it from your not saying more about the child.

Was she ever found? And her mother, the pretty lady, Mrs. Robbins, no,

Robertson,--and my lady, your mother? I heard people saying that all

were lost, except those of us who were in our boat. And I never knew to

the contrary until now. Were they saved, sir?"

Donald shook his head sadly.

"Not one of them saved!" she exclaimed. "Ah me! how terrible! I had a

sight of Mr. Robertson, with his baby in his arms--just one glimpse in

the dreadful tumult. It all came on so suddenly,--every one screaming at

once, and not a minute to spare. I could not find _my_ lady, yet I

fancied once I heard her screaming for her children; but I ran with them

to the first deck, and tried to tie them to something--to a chair, I

think, so they might float--I was frantic; but I had no rope, only my

gown."

"Yes, yes," said Donald, longing to produce the pieces of black cloth

which he had brought with him, but fearing to interrupt the narrative

just then. "Please go on."

"I tore long strips from my gown, but I could not do anything with

them; there was not time. The men were filling the boats, and I rushed

to the side of the sinking vessel. No one could help me. I prayed to

Heaven, and, screaming to the men in a boat below to catch them, I threw

the babies out over the water. Whether they went into the boat or the

water I could not tell; it seemed to me that some one shouted back. The

next I knew, I was taken hold of by strong arms and lifted down into one

of the boats. My lady was not there, nor the babies, nor any one of our

party; all were strangers to me. For days we drifted, meeting no trace

of any other boat from the ship, and living as best we could on a few

loaves of bread and a jug of water that one of the sailors had managed

to lower into our boat. We were picked up after a time and carried to

Liverpool. But I was frightened at the thought of what I had

done--perhaps the twins would have been saved with me if I had not

thrown them down. I was afraid that some of their relatives in America

would rise up and accuse me, you see, sir, and put me in disgrace. I had

acted for the best, but would any one believe me? So when they asked my

name, I gave the first I could think of, and said it was 'Ellen Lee,'

and when they wondered at such a strange name for a French girl, as I

appeared to be, I told them one of my parents was English, which was

true enough. Not having been able to save a bit of my luggage, I was

fain to take a little help from the ship's people. As I had been entered

on the passenger-list only as Mrs. Wolcott Reed's maid, they were

satisfied when I said I was Ellen Lee. After getting safe ashore I kept

my own counsel and hid myself. To this day I never have breathed a word

about the shipwreck or my throwing out the babies--no, not to a living

soul, save yourself, sir. Well, a woman gave me another gown, which was

a help, and I soon found a place with a family in the country, fifteen

miles from Liverpool, to sew for the family and tend the children. Of

course I dropped the name of Ellen Lee the moment I left Liverpool, and

I hoped to settle down to a peaceful life and faithful service. But I

grew sadder all the time; nothing could cheer me up. Night and day, day

and night, I was haunted by the thought of that awful hour."

"Yes, awful indeed," said Donald. "I have often thought of it, and tried

to picture the scene. But we will not speak of it now. You must take

happiness in knowing that, instead of losing the babies, you saved them.

Only don't forget a single thing about the twins and their mother. Tell

me all you can remember about them. Haven't you some little thing that

belonged to them or to any of the party? A lock of hair or a piece of a

dress--_anything_ that was theirs? Oh, I hope you have--it is so very

important!"

"Ah, yes, sir! I was just coming to that. There's a few things that

belonged to the babies and the poor mother--and to tell you the truth,

they've pressed heavy enough on my conscience all these years."

Donald, with difficulty, controlled his impatience to see the articles,

but he felt that it would be wisest to let Madame have her way.

"You see how it was: a young man--the same young man who had taken the

picture--came to the ship to bid me good-by, and stood talking apart

with me a minute, while the ladies were looking into their state-rooms

and so on; and somehow he caught hold of my little satchel and was

swinging it on his finger when Mrs. Reed sent for me. And before I could

get back to him, the ship was ready to start; all who were not

passengers were put ashore; somebody shouted an order, and the vessel

began to move. When, at last, I saw him, we were some distance from

shore; and he was standing on the dock looking after me, with my satchel

in his hand! We both had forgotten it--and there was nothing for me to

do but to sail on to America without it."

"Were the things in that satchel?" cried Don. "Where is the man? Is he

living?"

Her eyes filled with tears. "No, I shall never see him again in this

world," she said.

Her grief was so evident that Donald, whose disappointment struggled

with his sympathy, felt it would be cruel to press her further. But when

she dried her eyes and looked as if she were about to go on with the

story, he could not forbear saying, in a tone which was more imploring

than he knew: "Can't you tell me what was in that satchel? Try to

think."

"Yes, indeed, I can," she said, plaintively; "there was the picture of

the babies and me; the baby Dorothy's dress ribbon; my purse and the

key--"

"A key!" cried Donald. "What sort of a key?"

"Oh, a little bit of a key, and gloves, and my best pocket-handkerchief,

and--most of all, Mrs. Reed's letter--"

"Mrs. Reed's letter!" echoed Don. "Oh, if I only could have had that and

the picture! But do go on."

"You make me so nervous, Mr. Donald--indeed you do, begging your

pardon--that I hardly know what I'm saying; but I must tell you how each

of the things had got into my hands. First, the picture was my own

property, and I prized it very much, though I had not the courage to

show it to Mrs. Reed; then the pink ribbon was for baby Dorothy. My lady

had handed it to me at the hotel when we were dressing the twins; and in

the hurry, after cutting off the right lengths to tie up the dear little

sleeves, I crammed the rest into my satchel."

"And the key? what about the key?"

"Oh, you see, baby Dorothy had worn a chain from the time she was a week

old. It fastened with a key. Mr. Reed himself had put it on her little

neck and locked it the very day before he was taken down, and in the

hurry of dressing the babies, as I was telling you, Mrs. Reed let fall

the speck of a key; it was hung upon a bit of pink ribbon, and I picked

it up and clapped it into the satchel, knowing I could give it to her on

the vessel. But the letter--ah, that troubles me most of all."

She paused a moment and looked at Donald, before beginning again, as if

fearing that he would be angry. But he sat watching her, with breathless

interest.

"It was a letter to a Mr. George Reed, somewhere in America--your

uncle, was it, sir?--and your mother had handed it to me a whole week

before to put in the post. It would then have gone across in the steamer

before ours, but--ah, how can I tell you? I had dropped it into my

little satchel (it was one that I often carried with me), and forgotten

all about it. And, indeed, I never thought of it again till we had been

two days out, and then I remembered it was in the satchel. I don't

wonder you feel badly, sir, indeed I don't; for it should have gone to

America, as she intended,--the poor, dear lady!"

"Heaven only knows what trouble it might have spared my uncle; and now

he can never know," said Donald, in a broken voice.

"Never know? please don't say that, Master Donald, for you'll be going

back alive and well, and giving the letter to him with your own hands,

Heaven willing."

Donald could only gasp out, "With my own hands? What! How?"

"Because it's in the satchel to this day. Many a time, after I was safe

on shore again, I thought to post it, but I was foolish and cowardly,

and feared it might get me into trouble in some way, I didn't know how,

but I never had the courage to open it when the poor lady who wrote it

was dead and gone. May be you'll think best to open it yourself now,

sir."

So saying, Madame Rene stepped across the room, kneeled by an old trunk,

and opening it she soon drew forth a small leather hand-bag.

Handing it to the electrified Donald, she gave a long sigh of relief.

"There it is, sir, and it's a blessed day that sees it safe in your own

hands!"

Yes, there they were,--the ribbon, the picture, the tiny golden key, and

the letter. Donald, looking a little wild (as Madame Rene thought),

examined them, one after the other and all together, with varying

expressions of emotion and delight. He was bewildered as to what to do

first; whether to take out the necklace, that he now always carried

about with him, and fit the key to its very small lock; or to compare

the group with the babies' photographs which his uncle had intrusted to

him, and which he had intended to show to Madame Rene during the present

interview; or to open and read his mother's letter, which the nature of

his errand to Europe gave him an undoubted right to do.

The necklace was soon in the hands of Madame Rene, who regarded it with

deep interest, and begged him to try the key which, she insisted, would

open it at once. Donald, eager to comply, made ready to push aside the

top of the clasp, and then he resolved to do no such thing. Uncle George

or Dorry should be the first to put the key into that long-silent lock.

Next came the pictures. Don looked at the four little faces in a

startled way, for the resemblance of the babies in the group to those in

the two photographs was evident. The group, which was an ambrotype

picture of Ellen Lee and the twins, was somewhat faded, and it had been

taken at least three weeks before the New York photographs were. But,

even allowing for the fact that three weeks make considerable change in

very young infants, there were unmistakable points of similarity. In the

first place, though all the four heads were in baby caps, two chubby

little faces displayed delicate light locks straying over the forehead

from under the caps, while, on the other hand, two longish little faces

rose baldly to the very edge of the cap-border. Another point which

Ellen Lee discovered was that the bald baby in each picture wore a

sacque with the fronts rounded at the corners, and the "curly baby," as

Donald called her, displayed in both instances a sacque with square

fronts. Donald, on consulting his uncle's notes, found a mention of this

difference in the sacques; and when Madame Rene, without seeing the

notes, told him that both were made of flannel, and that the boy's must

have been blue and the girl's pink,--which points Mr. Reed also had set

down,--Don felt quite sure that the shape of the actual sacques would

prove on examination to agree with their respective pictures. Up to that

moment our investigator had, in common with most observers of the

masculine gender, held the easy opinion that "all babies look alike;"

but circumstances now made him a connoisseur. He even fancied he could

see a boyish look in both likenesses of his baby-self; but Madame Rene

unconsciously subdued his rising pride by remarking innocently that the

boy had rather a cross look in the two pictures, but that was "owing to

his being the weakest of the twins at the outset."

Then came the pink ribbon--and here Donald was helpless. But Madame

Rene came to the rescue by explaining that if any ribbons were found

upon baby Dorothy they must match these, for their dear mother had

bought new pink ribbon on purpose for her little girl to wear on

shipboard, and this was all they had with them, excepting that which was

cut off to tie up the sleeves, when the baby was dressed to be carried

on board the ship. And now Madame recalled the fact that after the first

day the twins wore only their pretty little white night-gowns, and that,

when it was too warm for their sacques, she used to tie up baby

Dorothy's sleeves loosely with the bits of pink ribbon, to show the

pretty baby arm.

Next came the letter. Donald's first impulse was to take it to Uncle

George without breaking the seal; but, on second thoughts, it was

probable that for some yet unknown reason he ought to know the contents

while he was still in Europe. It might enable him to follow some

important clew, and his uncle might regret that he had let the

opportunity escape him. But--to open a sealed letter addressed to

another!

Yes, all things considered, he would do so in this instance. His uncle

had given him permission to do whatever, in his own judgment, was

necessary to be done; therefore, despite his just scruples, he decided

that this was a necessary act.

Madame Rene anxiously watched his face as he read.

"Oh, if you only had posted this, even at any time during the past ten

years!" he exclaimed, when half through the letter. Then, softening, as

he saw her frightened countenance, he added; "But it is all right now,

and God bless you! It is a wonderful letter," said Donald, in a tone of

deep feeling, as he reached the last line, "and one that Dorothy and I

will treasure all our lives. Almost every word tends to confirm Dorry's

identity, and it would complete the evidence if any more were needed.

How thankful Uncle George will be when he sees it! But how did you ever

get all these treasures again, Ellen Lee?"

Madame Rene started slightly at hearing her old name from Donald's lips,

but replied promptly:

"It was by neither more nor less than a miracle. The satchel was given

back to me not very long after I found myself in Europe again."

"Not by that same young man!" exclaimed Donald, remembering Madame

Rene's tears.

"Yes, Mr. Donald, by that same young man who took it on the vessel--the

photographer."

"Oh!" said Donald.

"I may as well tell you," said Madame Rene, flushing, and yet looking

ready to cry again, "that I had his address, and some months after the

shipwreck I sent him a line, so that he might find me if he happened to

pass my way. Well, you may believe I was glad to get the purse and some

of the other things, Mr. Donald, but the picture and the key were a

worriment to me. The picture did not seem to belong to me any longer.

Sometimes I thought I would try to send them to the ship's company, to

be forwarded to the right persons, and so rid my mind of them; but I had

that foolish, wicked fear that I'd be traced out and punished. Why

should I, their _bonne_, be saved and they lost? some might say. Often I

was tempted to destroy these things out of my sight; but each time

something whispered to me to wait, for some day one who had a right to

claim them would be helped to find me. I little thought that one of the

very babies I threw down over the waves would be that person--"

"That's so," said Donald, cheerily.

Hearing a doleful sound from the alley far below them, he opened the

window and leaned out. A beggar in rags stood there, singing his sad

story in rhyme.

Verse after verse came out in mournful measure, but changed to a

livelier strain when Don threw down a piece of money, which hit the

ragged shoulder.

"Well," said Donald, by way of relief, and again turning to Madame Rene,

"that's a sorry-looking chap. You have all kinds of people here in

Paris.--But, by the way, you spoke of tearing strips from your gown on

the night of the shipwreck. Do you happen to have that same gown still?"

"No, Master Donald--not the gown. I made it into a skirt and wore it,

year after year, for I was obliged to be very saving; and then it went

for linings and what not. Yonder cape there on the chair is faced with

it, and that's ready to be thrown to the beggars."

"Let _this_ beggar see it, please," said Donald, blithely; and in a

moment he was by the window comparing his samples with the cape-lining

as knowingly as a dry-goods buyer.

"Exactly alike!" he exclaimed. Then with an invisible little shudder, he

added: "Hold! let's try the flavor."

This test was unsatisfactory. But, after explanations, the fact

remained, to the satisfaction of both, that the "goods" were exactly the

same, but that Madame Rene's cape-lining having often been washed was

quite divested of its salt.

Here was another discovery. Donald began to feel himself a rival of the

great Wogg himself. Strange to say, in further corroboration of the

story of the buxom matron at Liverpool, Madame Rene actually gave Donald

a fragment of the gown that had been given to her so long ago; and it

was identical, in color and pattern, with the piece Mr. Wogg had lately

sent him.

"How in the world did you ever get these pieces, Master Donald?" asked

Madame Rene.

Whereupon Donald told her all about his Liverpool friend and her

rag-bag--much to Madame's delight, for she was thankful to know that the

good woman who had helped her long ago was still alive and happy.

"And now," said Donald, pleasantly, "let me hear more of your own

history, for it interests me greatly. Where have you lived all these

years?"

"Well, Master Donald, I went on keeping my own counsel, as I told you,

and never saying a word about the wreck or the two dear babies, and

living with Mr. Percival's family as seamstress and nursery governess,

under my old French name of Eloise Louvain. I was there till, one day,

we said we'd just get married and seek our fortunes together."

"We!" repeated Donald, astonished and rather shocked; "not you and Mr.

Percival?"

"Oh, no, indeed!--I and Edouard Rene," she said, in a tone that gave Don

to understand that Edouard Rene was the only man that any girl in her

senses ever could have chosen for a husband.

"What! The photographer?"

"Yes, Mr. Donald, the photographer. Well, we married, and how many nice

things they gave me--and they were not rich folk, either!"

"They? Who, Madame Rene?"

"Why, Mrs. Percival and the children--gowns and aprons and pretty things

that any young wife might be proud to have. She had married a fine

gentleman, but she had been a poor girl. Her little boy was named after

his grandfather, and it made such a funny mixture,--James Wogg Percival;

but we always called him Jamie."

"Wogg!" exclaimed Don. "I know a James Wogg--a London detective--"

"Oh, that's the son, sir, Mrs. Percival's brother; he's a detective, and

a pretty sharp one, but not sharp enough for me."

She said this with such a confident little toss of her head that Don,

much interested, asked what she meant.

"Why, you see, Mr. Wogg often came to see his sister, Mrs. Percival, as

I think, to borrow money of her; and he was always telling of the

wonderful things he did, and how nothing could escape him, and how

stupidly other detectives did their work. And one day, when I was in the

room, he actually told how some people were looking for one Ellen Lee, a

nursemaid who had been saved from shipwreck, and how one of the

survivors was moving heaven and earth to find her, but hadn't succeeded;

and how, if the case had been given to him, he would have done thus and

so--for she never could have escaped _him_. And there I was almost under

his very nose!--yes, then and many a time after!"

"It's the funniest thing I ever heard!" cried Donald, enjoying the joke

immensely, and convulsed to think of Mr. Wogg's disgust when he should

learn these simple facts.

"Poor old Wogg!" he said. "It will almost kill him."

"I tell you, Mr. Donald," continued Madame Rene, earnestly, though she

had laughed with him, "I listened then for every word that man might

say. I longed to ask questions, but I did not dare. I heard enough,

though, to know they were looking for me, and it frightened me

dreadfully.

"Well, as soon as we were married--Edouard and I--we went to my old

home, and I made my peace with my poor old parents--Heaven be

praised!--and comforted their last days. Then we went about through

French, Swiss, and German towns, taking pictures. I helped Edouard with

the work, and my English and French served us in many ways. But we found

it hard getting a living, and at last my poor man sickened. I felt that

nothing would help him but the baths at Aix-la-Chapelle; and so did he.

We managed to work our way there, and once safe at Aix, I found

employment as a _doucheuse_ in the baths."

"What is that, please?" asked Don.

"The _doucheuse_ is the bath-woman who attends specially to ladies. My

earnings enabled my poor husband to stay and take the waters; and when

he grow better, as he did, he got a situation with a photographer in the

town. But it was only for a while. He sickened again--Heaven rest and

bless his precious soul!--and soon passed away like a little child. I

couldn't bear Aix then, and so I went with a family to Paris, and

finally became a visiting dressmaker. My poor husband always called me

Elise; and so Madame Elise Rene could go where she pleased without any

fear of the detectives finding her. At last, only the other day, I

picked up a French newspaper, and there I chanced to see your notice

about Ellen Lee, and I answered it."

"Bless you for that!" said Donald, heartily. "But had you never seen any

other? We advertised often for Ellen Lee in the London and Liverpool

papers."

"No, I never saw one, sir; and, to tell the truth, I hated to remember

that I had ever been called Ellen Lee, for it brought back the thought

of that awful night--and the poor little babes that I thought I had

killed. If the notice in the paper had not said that I saved their

lives, you never would have heard from me, Mr. Donald. That made me

happier than I ever had been in all my life--mostly for the babies'

sake, though it seemed to lift a load of trouble off my mind."

Several times during the long interview with Elise Rene, Donald found

himself wondering how he could manage, without hurting her pride, to

give her the money which she evidently needed. For she was no pauper,

and her bright, dark eyes showed that time and trouble had not by any

means quenched her spirit. The idea of receiving charity would shock

her, he knew; but an inspiration came to him. He would not reward her

himself, but he would act for Dorothy.

"Madame Rene," he said, with some hesitation, "if my sister had known I

was coming here to talk face to face with the friend who had saved her

life, I know what she would have done: she would have sent you her

grateful love and--and something to remember her by; something as she

would say, 'perfectly lovely.' I know she would."

Madame had already begun to frown, on principle, but the thought of

Dorry softened her, as Donald went on: "I know she would, but I don't

know what to do about it. I'd buy exactly the wrong article, if I were

trying to select. The fact is, you'll have to buy it yourself."

With these words, Donald handed Elise Rene a roll of bank-notes.

"Oh, Mr. Donald!" she exclaimed, with much emotion, "I can't take

this--indeed I cannot!"

"Oh, Madame Rene, but indeed you can," he retorted, laughing. "And now,"

he added hastily (to prevent her from protesting any longer), "I am not

going to inflict myself upon you for the entire day. You must be very

tired; and, besides, after you are rested, we must decide upon the next

thing to be done. I have cabled to my uncle, and there is no doubt that

he will send word for you to come with me at once to America. Now,

surely, you'll go? Please say that you will. I'll wait a week or two,

for you."

Elise hesitated.

"It would be a great joy," she said, "to go to America and to see

little Dorothy. She is a great deal more to me--and so are you, Mr.

Donald--than one would think; for, though you were both too young to be

very interesting when I was your _bonne_, I have thought and dreamed so

often of you in all these long years, and of what you both might have

lived to be if I had not thrown you away from me that night, that I--"

her eyes filled with tears.

"Yes, indeed; I know you take an interest in us both," was his cordial

reply. "And it makes me wish that you were safe with us in America,

where you would never see trouble nor suffer hardship any more. Say you

will go."

"Could I work?" she said eagerly. "Could I sew, make dresses, do

anything to be useful to Miss Dorothy? My ambition of late has been to

go back to England and set up for a dressmaker, and some day have a

large place, with girls to help me; but that would be impossible--life

is so hard for poor folk here in Europe. I feel as if I would do

anything to see Miss Dorothy."

"But you can have America, and Miss Dorothy, and the dressmaking

establishment, or whatever you please," Don pursued with enthusiasm;

"only be ready to sail by an early steamer. And since you go for our

sakes, and to satisfy my uncle, you must let us pay all the cost and

ever so much more. Think what joy you give us all in proving, without a

doubt, that Dorothy is--Dorothy."

"I will go," she said.

* * * * *

That same day Donald again flew up the long flight of stairs in the Rue

Soudiere. He had, meantime, secured a room in some hotel recommended to

him by M. Bajeau, and already had received a letter there that had

filled him with pleasant expectation. It was this letter that now sent

him back to ask Madame Rene if he might call that evening and bring a

friend.

"A friend?" Madame Rene looked troubled. Donald, to her, was her own boy

almost; but a stranger!--that would be quite different. She glanced

anxiously around, first at the shabby apartment, and then at her own

well-worn gown--but Mr. Donald, she thought, would know what was best to

do. So, with a little Frenchy shrug of her shoulders, and a gesture of

resignation, she said, "Oh, certainly"--and that she would be much

pleased.

The evening visit was a success in every way, excepting one. The _bonne_

of former days did not at first recognize the "friend," M. Bajeau,

though at the first sight he was certain that this tall, comely woman

was the veritable person who had come with Mrs. Reed and the pink-faced

twins into his little shop. But she remembered the visit perfectly, and

nearly all that happened on that day. She recalled, too, that Mrs. Reed

had intended to have the baby's full name, Dorothy, engraved upon the

clasp, and that on account of the smallness of the space the initials,

D. R., were decided upon. Still it was annoying to M. Bajeau, and

consequently rather embarrassing to Donald, that the woman did not

promptly recognize him as the same jeweller.

The simple-hearted and somewhat vain old gentleman, who felt that this

would be a very important link in the chain of evidence, had recognized

Madame Rene; and why could she not return the compliment?

Donald, by way of relieving the awkwardness, remarked during a rather

stiff moment that it was unusually warm, and begged leave to open the

door. At this, Monsieur, hinting delicately that a draught would in time

kill an angel, produced a skull-cap, which he deftly placed upon his

head; and no sooner was this change effected than Madame Rene grew

radiant, clasped her hands in honest rapture, and declared that she

would now recognize M. Bajeau among a million as the very gentleman who

engraved that blessed baby's dear little initials upon the clasp!

CHAPTER XXXV.

A DAY OF JOY.

WHILE the great ship that bears Donald and Madame Rene to America is

plowing its way across the ocean, we who are on dry land may look into

the home at Lakewood.

Uncle George and the two girls have just come in from a twilight walk;

the glow of exercise is on their faces, and they are merry, not because

anything funny has been seen or said, but because their hearts are full

of joy. Donald is coming home.

Down stairs in the housekeeper's pleasant sitting-room are a pair of old

friends, and if you could open the door without being seen you would

hear two familiar voices.

"Where's the use," Mr. Jack is saying confidentially, "in Master

Donald's bein' away so long? The place ain't natteral,--nothing's

natteral without that boy. And there's Miss Dorothy, the trimmest little

craft that ever was; here she's been tossin' about and draggin' anchor,

so to speak, all because he ain't here alongside. He's gone to find out

for certain, is he? Where's the use in findin' out? One clipper's as

good as another if both are sound in the hull and full-rigged. To my

mind the capt'n'd better took what the Lord's giv' him, and be thankful

accordin'. You can't change the bottom o' the sea by continyully takin'

soundin's. I tell you, messmate--"

He stops short as Lydia raises a warning finger,--

"You're forgetting again, Mr. Jack!" she pleads, "and after all the

grammar me and Miss Dorry have taught you. Besides, you might be just as

elegant in talking to me as to the family."

"Eleganter, Mistress Blum--eleganter," is the emphatic response; "but

not when a chap's troubled--'t ain't in the order o' things. A cove

can't pray grammatic and expect to be heard, can he? But, as I was

sayin', there's been stormy times off the coast for the past three days.

That boy ought t' have been kept at home. Gone to find out? Humph!

Where's the use? S'pose when them two mites was throwed out from the

sinkin' ship I'd 'a' waited to find out which babies they were; no, I

ketched 'em fur what they was. Where's the use findin' out? There

_ain't_ no use in it. I'm an old sailor, but somehow I'm skeery as a

lass to-night. I've kind o' lost my moorin's."

"Lost what, Mr. Jack?" said Lydia, with a start.

"My moorin's. It seems to me somehow's that lad'll never come to land."

"Mercy on us, Jack!" cried Lydia, in dismay. "What on earth makes you

say a thing like that?"

"'Cos I'm lonesome. I'm upset," said Jack, rising gloomily, "an' that's

all there is about it. An' there's that wall-eyed McSwiver--"

"Mr. Jack," exclaimed Lydia, suddenly, "you're not talking plain and

honest with me. There's something else on your mind."

"An' so there is, Mistress Lydia; an' I may as well out with it. Ken you

pictur' to yourself a craft tossed about on the sea, with no cap'ain nor

compass nor steerin' gear nor nothin',--the whole thing clean adrift,

an' no anchor to hold it from a-driftin' furder? Well, I'm that craft. I

want some one to tow me into smooth waters, and then sail alongside

allers--somebody kind and sensible and good. Now do you take the idee?"

[Illustration]

Lydia thought she did, but she was not quite sure; and as we cannot wait

to hear the thrilling conversation that followed, we will steal up

stairs again, to hear the pleasant "good-night" often repeated while

Uncle, at the study door, waves his hand blithely to the pretty

procession of two mounting to the sleeping-room above.

Later, while the girls are whispering together in Dorry's cosey corner,

Mr. Reed writes the long letter to Eben Slade, which tells him that he

may now come on with "legal actions" and his threats of exposure; that

Mr. George is ready to meet him in any court of law, and that his proofs

are ready. Then at the last follows a magnanimous offer of help, which

the baffled man will be glad to accept as he sneaks away to his Western

home--there to lead, let us hope, a less unworthy life than of old.

The letter is sealed. Now the lights are out. Mr. Jack, tranquil and

happy, having at last made Lydia "take the idee" to his satisfaction,

has tip-toed his way to his bachelor room above the stable, and Watch

settles himself upon the wide piazza to spend the pleasant midsummer

night out of doors.

Sleep well, good old Watch! To-morrow will be a busy day for you. Very

early, a trim young man will come with a message from the telegraph

office, and you will have to bark and howl as he approaches, and slowly

subside when Dorothy rushes down to receive the telegram, which tells of

a certain ship being sighted at daylight off Sandy Hook. Then affairs at

the stable will occupy you. Jack, getting out the carriage in a hurry,

never heeding your growls and caresses, will drive to the house, and

(while you are wildly threading your way between wheels and the horses'

legs) Uncle George, Josie, and Dorothy, radiant with expectation, will

enter the vehicle, Jack will mount to the box, and off they will start

for the railway station!

Lydia--happy soul!--will call "Come back, Watch!" and then, resting on

the piazza again, you may amuse yourself with the flies that try to

settle on your nose, or dream of a wild race with your young master,

while she makes the house fairly shine for the welcoming that is soon to

be.

* * * * *

. . . Wake up, old Watch! "To-morrow" is here. Even now Uncle George,

Josie, and Dorothy are on the Express-train for New York. It shakes and

trembles with excess of speed, yet it is all too slow to satisfy the

happy three who are going at last to see their ship come in.

Lydia Blum, are you aware that this is the twentieth time that you have

"just run up and put the finishin' touch to Mr. Donald's room"? Ah, how

pleased he will be when he learns that, after your wedding, you and Jack

are to continue living on the place just the same, excepting that you

are to have a little cottage of your own!

And you, Charity Danby,--so trim, rosy, and joyful for Dorothy's

sake,--don't you see how you are hindering Kassy with your nosegays and

garlands and vines trailing all through the house?

And, Jack, how can you wait till it is time to drive to the train but by

working like mad in the stables, in the carriage-house, in the

gymnasium,--anywhere, everywhere,--so that the boy will be all the more

delighted when he comes?

Hark, now, Liddy! Don't you hear something? No, that was only the

village boys shouting out on the lake! Dust away, dear woman! And you,

Charity, throw wide the study-blinds, and brush that stray twig from the

study-table before the young mistress of the house comes back! Ah,

little you dream of the joy that will thrill those very walls to-night

when under Dot's own fingers the clasp of a quaint old necklace shall

yield to the touch of a tiny key, and Uncle George and his precious girl

shall laugh and cry together!

Ready, every one! No false alarm this time. Lydia, Kassy, and Norah,

Charity and all the Danbys, are waving handkerchiefs and hats as two

carriages come rolling up through the sunset light that floods the

avenue.

Hurrah! Bark your loudest now, old Watch! Jack feels like dancing a

hornpipe on his box. Ed Tyler, and his father, and Josie Manning jump

out of one carriage; Uncle George, leaping like a boy from the other,

helps a tall, bright-eyed woman, dressed in black, to alight; and then,

amid a chorus of cheers and barking, and joyous cries of welcome,

happiest of the happy, follow the brother and sister--DONALD and

DOROTHY!

* * * * *

Transcriber's Notes:

Obvious punctuation errors repaired.

Page 221, "compelment" changed to "compliment" (It was a compliment)

Page 286, a parenthetical statement begins but no ending was printed.

This was retained. ((though you know, Don, I cannot)

Page 354, "is it" changed to "it is" (it is all too slow)