“No one ever knew what became of them.  They—­they were never found, though a careful search was made.  I was the only one left.”

“And was there nothing to tell of your past life?”

“There wasn’t much to tell, you see—­I was so small.  There was a sort of diary in the bed with me, but it only gave details of my baby days—­probably it was written by my mother—­for the handwriting is that of a woman.  Aunt Sarah gave it to me the other day.  I shall always treasure it.”

“And is that all?”

“Well, there was a mention of something—­in a vague sort of way—­that I was to inherit when I grew up.  Whether it was land or money no one can tell.  The reference is so veiled.  Even Uncle John, and he is a stock and bond broker, you know, says he is puzzled.  He has had a search made in Rockford—­that’s where the flood was—­but it came to nothing.  And so that is all I know of my past.”

“But your aunt must know something of your mother if they were relatives.”

“Very little.  They saw each other hardly at all, and not for some years before my mother’s marriage, Aunt Sarah says.  How my parents came to pin the Stoningtons’ address on my baby dress they can only guess.  And I’ll never know.  Probably they did it before they were—­were drowned.”

“Then your name isn’t Stonington after all, Amy?”

“Oh, yet it is.  The queer part of it is that my mother is said to have married a man of the same name as Uncle John, but no relative, as far as we can learn.  So I’m Amy Stonington just the same.  My uncle and aunt formally adopted me after they found that there was no hope of locating my parents.  And so I’ve lived in ignorance of the mystery about me until just the other day.”

“And then they told you?”

“Yes.  It was discussing the advisability of this that caused Uncle John and Aunt Sarah to confer so often.  Then they decided that I was getting old enough to be told.  They said they would rather it would come to me from themselves than from strangers.”

“Oh, then others know of it?”

“Yes, a few persons in town, but they were good enough to keep it quiet for my sake.  Among them, so Uncle John told me, were Alice Jallow’s people.  That is why I think she wrote the note.  She must have found out about my secret in some way, and thought to taunt me with it.”

“The mean creature!”

“Oh, I don’t mind.  I was only afraid you girls—­”

“Amy Stonington!  If you even hint at such a thing again we’ll never forgive you!  As if we cared!  Why, I think it’s perfectly wonderful to have such a romance about you.  I know the other girls will be crazy about it.  Of course, it’s sad, too, dear.  But maybe some day, you’ll find out that your father and mother aren’t—­aren’t gone—­at all, and you’ll have them again.”

“That’s what I’ve been hoping since I knew.  But there is very little chance, after all these years.  Uncle John told me not to hope.  You see, they must have been drowned.  The worst is that I can’t recall them.  They never corresponded with aunt and uncle in years.  I don’t know what sort of a home I had—­or—­or whether I had brothers or sisters.”