Thomas Carpenter and Anna were stopping in P., at the house of relatives who knew Minnie’s history, but who had never made any difference in their treatment of her on that account.

“Is father and mother at home?” said Minnie to the servant, who opened the door.  She answered in the affirmative.

“Tell them to come into the parlor, they are wanted immediately.”

“Sit down,” said Minnie to the stranger, handing her a chair, “and wait till father comes.”

Anna and Thomas soon entered the room, and Minnie approaching them said, “Father, this woman met me on the street to-day, and says she is my mother.  You know all about my history.  Tell me if there is any truth in this story.”

“I don’t know, Minnie, I never saw thy mother.”

“But question her, father, and see if there is any truth in what she says; but tell me first, father, am I white or colored?”

“Minnie, I believe there is a small portion of colored blood in thy veins.”

“It is enough,” said Minnie, drawing closer to the strange woman.  “What makes you think that I am your child?”

“By this,” said she, taking a miniature from her bosom.  “By this, which I carried next to my heart for more than twelve years, and never have been without it a single day or night.”

Thomas looked upon the miniature; it was an exact likeness of Minnie when she first came to them, and although she had grown and changed since the likeness was taken, there was too close a resemblance between it and one which had been taken soon after she came, for him to doubt that Minnie was the original of that likeness.

Thomas questioned the woman very closely, but her history and narrative corresponded so well with what he had heard of Minnie’s mother, that he could not for a moment doubt that this was she, and as such he was willing to give her the shelter of his home, till he could make other arrangements.

“But why,” said Anna, somewhat grieved at the shock, that Minnie had received, “did thee startle her by so suddenly claiming her in the street?  Would it not have been better for thee to have waited and found out where she lived, and then discovered thyself to her?”

“I’spect it would, ’Mam,” said Ellen, very meekly and sorrowfully, “but when I saw her and heard the young lady say, Minnie, wait a minute, I forgot everything but that this was my long-lost child.  I am sorry if I did any harm, but I was so glad I could not help it.  My heart was so hungry for my child.”

“Yes, yes,” said Anna sadly, “I understand thee; it was the voice of nature.”

Minnie was too nervous and excited to return to her school that day; the next morning she had a very high fever, and Thomas concluded it would be better to take her home and have her mother accompany her.

And so on Monday morning Anna and Thomas left P., taking Minnie and her mother along.

Once again in her pleasant home, surrounded by the tenderest care (for her mother watched over her with the utmost solicitude) the violence of her fever abated, but it was succeeded by a low nervous affection which while it produced no pain yet it slowly unstrung her vitality.