Apparently, he was sorely afraid lest the bitter disappointment would follow.  The blasting of those new, wild hopes of hers might have a bad effect on the old lady.  That was why the deacon tried to keep her from being too sanguine, even though he himself was possibly hugging suddenly awakened rapturous dreams to his heart.

“There may have been others, Joel!” she cried exultantly; “but look on the back of the medallion.  I feared it might be lost some day, Joel, so I scratched his initials there.  My glasses are too moist for me to see well; look and tell me if you can make out anything, husband!”

Even Hugh held his breath while the deacon turned the tiny medallion over in his hands.  Then he snatched up a reading glass of considerable power from the table, and held it close to the object in his quivering clutch.

They heard him give a cry, and it did not hint at disappointment.

“Oh!  Joel, are the three letters there?” she begged piteously, as she hugged the still calmly sleeping child closer and closer to her heart.

“Something I can see, wife, although it is very faint,” he told her.  “But then think of the many years that have elapsed.  The scratches must have been very lightly done at best.  Hugh, your eyes are younger than mine; and, besides, I’m afraid there are tears dimming my sight.  Look, and tell us what you see!”

It was a picture, with those two old people so eagerly hanging on the decision of the clear-eyed youth.  Hugh used the glass, for he wanted to make certain.  It would be doubly cruel if by any mistake on his part those anxious hearts were deceived.

“I can plainly make out the first initial, which is J beyond question,” he almost immediately said.

At hearing that the deacon cast a swift look toward his wife, which she returned in kind.  Neither of them could find utterance for a single word, however, such was the mental strain under which they labored.

“The last letter looks like a W,” continued Hugh.  “Yes, now that I’ve rubbed it with my finger I am positive of that.  As for the middle one, I think it must be either an O or a C, though it’s rather hard to say.”

Deacon Winslow gave a deep sigh.

“And our boy’s middle name was Carstairs, named after his mother’s family!” he hastened to say.

Then they exchanged more wondering looks.  It was very like a miracle, the bringing of the little child into the home of that couple whose fireside had so long awaited the coming of such a sunbeam.

Deacon Winslow turned almost fiercely on Hugh, and gripped his sleeve.

“You must tell us more about the boy,” he said.  “Who is he, and where did he come from?  Those are vital things for us to learn.  We could never know peace again if this mystery were not made clear.  So tell us, Hugh, tell us as quickly as you can, so that we may learn the best, or the worst.”