And when Bobby told Mrs. Abel that the visitors had requested to see the little clothes he wore when they found him, she and Abel were greatly pleased, for they were proud of Bobby, and without delay she opened the chest in which she kept her treasures and brought forth a neatly wrapped package, which she delivered to Mr. Winslow.

For many years the package had not been opened.  It was covered with cloth, and tied with a buckskin thong.  Mr. Winslow placed it on the table, and as he undid it the others grouped themselves around him.

On the top of the package lay the little dress.  He lifted it and shook it out and held it up for inspection, and then a strange thing happened.  Mrs. Winslow, mildly curious, had been standing by Skipper Ed. Her face suddenly went white, she reached for the garment, examined it for a moment, and then exclaimed: 

“Oh, my little Bobby!  Oh, my little boy!  That was his dress!  It was his!”

There was excitement at once.  Mrs. Winslow became so dizzy and faint that Skipper Ed sat her in a chair.  Mr. Winslow’s hand trembled as he examined the other articles of clothing.  Then he opened the wallet in which Mrs. Abel had placed Bobby’s little ring, for he had long since outgrown it.

“The ring Robert gave him on his third birthday, just before they left us!” said Mrs. Winslow, bursting into tears.  “His name is in it—­’Bobby.’  Let me see it.”

She was right.  The identification was perfect.  But none seemed yet to remember that the tall, handsome lad standing with them was the same Bobby.  The parents were lost in the sorrowful yesterday and forgetful of the happy today, until Skipper Ed asked: 

“What was the name of the yacht in which they were lost?”

“The Wanderer,” said Mr. Winslow.

“The boat Bobby was found in was a yacht’s boat, and it bore the name Wanderer.  There’s no doubt, I think, of the identification.  Bobby, you scamp, why aren’t you kissing your mother?  Quick, now.  And there’s your own father, too; and don’t forget I’m your old uncle.”

Suddenly this brought the father and mother to a realization that this Bobby was their Bobby—­their lost child—­the boy they had so long mourned as dead—­and they drew him to them and the mother wept over him, and fondled him and caressed him, and for a time there was so much confusion, with every one talking and nobody listening, that they quite forgot the notebook.  But at last, when some order had been restored, Mr. Winslow opened it, and read.  It contained some odds and ends of items, with a closing entry which cleared up much of the mystery of the Wanderer: 

“At sea, in an open boat,” it was dated.

“Two weeks ago the yacht Wanderer, when somewhere S.W. from the Greenland coast, collided in a dense fog with an iceberg.  Her bow was stove in and she began to sink at once.  The boats were immediately lowered and my wife and myself with our little nephew, Robert Winslow, and a sailor named Magee, succeeded in getting away in one of them, while the remainder of our party and crew were divided among three other boats.  But in the dense fog we somehow became separated from them.