“Well, I returned to my country home in safety.  Next day, I saw in the New York papers a reward of five hundred dollars for the recovery of the child, and the same amount for the arrest of the woman who stole it.  My person was described, according to the recollection of the servant, but so imperfectly that I could not be identified.  In two weeks I visited the city again, found the house where I had left the child—­for I had remembered, even in my haste, the street and the number.  The poor little thing was well, and had learned to love its new mother, who, in turn, seemed to love it as well as her own two children.  I kissed the child, left more money with the German woman, and fled again to my home.  These visits I repeated from week to week for six months, without detection.  The German woman supposed that I was the mother of the child, but knew there was a secret, and did not seek to disturb it.  At the end of the six months, your—­your—­brother died.” (There was here a slight quaver in her voice, almost instantly passing away.) “Soon after this, my mother died, and the last of our family estate was spent on her burial.”  (Another tremor in the voice, but brief.  The woman seemed to have perfect control of her feelings.)

“Fortunately, I was qualified to earn my living as a seamstress.  I went to the city, advertised for such a place, and obtained it.  I visited the child secretly, sometimes, and left money for its support and clothing.  But the idea of detection and exposure troubled me greatly.  One day, I read an advertisement from a married couple who had no children, offering to adopt a girl under two years of age.  I answered the advertisement, and thus became acquainted with—­”

“I anticipate the disclosure,” said Marcus.  “Mr. Minford!  And the poor, dear child is my niece.  Heaven be praised, she is found at last!”

CHAPTER II.

POSSIBLE LOVE.

“You have guessed rightly.  Miss Minford is your niece.  The proofs will be found in this packet.  They are articles of clothing, taken from the child as fast as new ones were supplied, to prevent its identification, bearing the initials of Helen Wilkeson.  I preserved them, with the vague idea of benefiting her by them, some day.  I have seen the child by stealth a few times since I gave her to Mr. and Mrs. Minford, but never called at their house.  It was agreed between us that I should never make myself known as the child’s mother, and that they should never seek to learn my name and history.  I acted as seamstress in several families in this city, until, about five years ago, I obtained an engagement in a family in New Jersey, living in the very town where that unlucky panorama was exhibited.  It happened, as you know, that you and I rode in the same car from New York, where I had been on a shopping excursion.  I recognized and was profoundly impressed with your resemblance to your brother.  Learning