At last, the agitated girl looked up at the kind and loving faces that were bending over her, and murmured,—­

‘It cannot be—­it is—­too good—­too great—­too happy.’

‘It is true, Gladys, my niece, my child,’ said Mr Jones, stooping to kiss her forehead.

Mrs Jones sat down by her, and taking one of her hands in hers, said,—­

’It all seems a dream, Gladys.  But if it be true, remember, you are now my niece, my child as well; and, God knows, I love you, and value you dearly.’

Once more the lonely Gladys felt that she had kindred.  Yielding to the feeling, she threw her arms round Mrs Jones’ neck, and gave vent to the emotion she had been striving to suppress.

At this juncture, Miss Gwynne appeared, who, wondering in her turn what could detain Mr and Mrs Jones so long from their guests, came to look for them.

Of course, she wondered still more when she found them both with their arms round one another and Gladys.

She was going away; but Mrs Jones, perceiving her, said,—­

’Come in, dear Freda, Minette’s hymn has led to a wonderful discovery—­has given us a niece—­a child—­in—­in—­our dear friend Gladys.’

Miss Gwynne knelt down at the feet of the sobbing Gladys, and taking one of her hands, said,—­

’Gladys, if this be true, we cannot love you better than we do now, or esteem you more; but you now feel one of us, instead of the isolated Gladys of this little room, which you have resolutely been hitherto.’

As may be imagined, Gladys was a long time realising the fact, that she was suddenly, and in the most extraordinary manner, raised from the Irish beggar, lady’s maid, or whatever she had hitherto chosen to consider herself—­for every one about her had long looked upon her as a friend—­to the niece of the good and kind Mr Jones.  When she was able to speak, her first words were,—­

’I do not understand it—­I cannot believe it.  It is too good—­too happy.’

‘I can scarcely believe it either,’ said Mr Jones, taking up the hymn book, and turning to his wife and Miss Gwynne, who had, thus far, taken the strange news upon Mr Jones’ word, which they never ventured to dispute.

‘This is my writing.  Margaret Jones was my sister, and Gladys’ mother.  I gave her this book when we were both young, and the date, also in my handwriting, marks the time, some two or three years after the gift, when I was at college, and she must have been about eighteen; she ran away with an Irish soldier, whose real name, even, we never learnt.  My poor father doated on my sister, and spoilt her.  She was high-spirited and wilful, but very loving, and very handsome.  Not at all like Gladys.  My sister’s was the Welsh, Gladys’ the Irish cast of countenance; yet I have seen an expression in Gladys’ face that has reminded me of her mother.’

’We discovered, after my sister ran away, that she had met the man she married when going to visit the landlady of a small inn, in my father’s parish, who was ill.  It seems that this woman connived at their meeting; and when strictly questioned, said, that she had believed he was a gentleman, and that he had called himself Captain O’Brien.’