On returning from the tailor’s, as has been seen, she laid her bundle of work upon the bed, and seated herself with a thoughtful air, resting her head upon her hand.  The more she thought, the more she seemed disturbed; and finally arose, and commenced walking the floor slowly.  Suddenly pausing, at length she sighed heavily, and went to the bed upon which lay her work, took it up, unrolled the bundle, and seating herself by the table, entered once more upon her daily toil.  But her mind was too much disturbed, from some cause, to permit her to pursue her work steadily.  In a little while she laid aside the garment upon which she had begun to sew, and, leaning forward, rested her head upon the table, sighing heavily as she did so, and pressing one hand hard against her side, as if to relieve pain.  A tap at the door aroused her from this state of abstraction.  As she turned, the door was quietly opened, and the woman she had seen at the tailor’s a short time before, entered.  She started to her feet at this unexpected apparition, and gazed, with a look of surprise, inquiry, and hope, upon her visitor.

“Can it be Mrs. Gaston?  But no! no!” and the young creature shook her head mournfully.

“Eugenia!” exclaimed Mrs. Gaston, springing forward, and instantly the two were locked in each other’s arms, and clinging together with convulsive eagerness.

“But no, no!  It cannot be my own Eugenia,” said Mrs. Gaston, slowly disengaging herself, and holding the young woman from her, while she read over every feature of her pale, thin face.  “Surely I am in a strange dream!”

“Yes, I am your own Eugenia Ballantine! my more than mother!  Or, the wreck of her, which a wave of life’s ever restless ocean has heaved upon the shore.”

“Eugenia Ballantine!  How can it be!  Lost years ago at sea, how can she be in this room, and in this condition!  It is impossible!  And yet you are, you must be, my own dear Eugenia.”

“I am!  I am!” sobbed the maiden, leaning her head upon the bosom of Mrs. Gaston, and weeping until tears fell in large drops upon the floor.

“But the sea gives not up its dead,” said Mrs. Gaston, in a doubting, bewildered tone.

“True—­but the sea never claimed me as a victim.”

“And your father?”

The maiden’s face flushed a moment, while a shade of anguish passed over it.

“At another time, I will tell you all.  My mind is now too much agitated and confused.  But why do I find you here?  And more than all, why as a poor seamstress, toiling for little more than a crust of bread and a cup of water?  Where is your husband?  Where are your children?”