arrived at her home in Boston, having been South four months, and at her earnest solicitation I came also.  She knew my heart and how determined I was to find Mr. Bentley, and felt willing to aid me in any way possible.  We went about the city, and I devoted myself especially to looking at paintings and statuary.  I found at last by chance a picture with the name, not of ‘Bentley,’ but of ‘Benton’ on it.  I traced it to Chicago, and proved it to be his, and there from his own friends gathered the facts which led me on his track.”

“Oh!” I cried.

“Wait,” said she, “More, Miss Minot; he has a wife, or at least there is a poor woman with two boys living in poverty in the suburbs of Boston, to whom he was married ten years ago.  I have been to see her, but did not disclose my secret.  Mrs. Chadwick has known of this for a long time, but dared not tell me until I got strong, and was in the North with her.  I gave that woman money to help her buy bread, and Mrs. Chadwick will see to her now.  She is a lovely character.  Benton’s home is near this place where she lives, and he goes there once in a great while.  Now about my clothes—­when I started for this place I was well clad, and the first of my journey quiet and calm, but I think my excitement grew intense, and I must have lost myself utterly.  I know it was a week ago when I left Boston, and now as I look back, I remember looking at my baby’s picture and everything growing dim in the cars.  This India shawl was thrown about my neck, but it seems when you found me I had no other covering.  I found the purse where I had sewed it in my dress, but my cloak and bonnet and furs, all are gone.

“I can remember how the name of this place kept ringing in my ears, and I must have asked for it and found it, even though I cannot remember one word.  After the baby’s picture your eyes came before me, and then old Peter.”

Looking at the clock, she said: 

“It is only half an hour since you came in, and will you ask Peter to come in and see me?  I’m sure I hear him talking in the other room.”

I stepped to the door, and there was Matthias.

I said to Mrs. Goodwin: 

“Miss Harris wishes to see Peter, she says.”

She looked at Matthias, and then said: 

“Well, come in, and we’ll find out what she means, if we can.”

He walked solemnly along to her bedside, and stood as if amazed.

“Peter,” said she, “you know me; I am Mary Harris, and you lived with Mr. Charles Sumner—­do say you know me.  You said you would deny your master, and you did it,” and she held her hands to him.

He reached forth his own and took the jewelled fingers tenderly in his dark palm as if half afraid; then the tears came, forcing their way, and with an effort he said: 

“Oh! oh! honey chile—­can’t be pos’ble—­what’s done happin to ye, and whar was ye gwine?”

“Never mind, Peter, but do you remember the man who painted beautiful pictures, and stopped awhile with your master’s brother?”