“You’ll kill me, Aunt Rachel; I know you will,” he gasped out.

“You may order my coffin, Timothy,” said Rachel, in a sepulchral tone.  “I sha’n’t live twenty-four hours.  I’ve felt it coming on for a week past.  I forgive you for all your ill-treatment.  I should like to have some one go for the doctor, though I know I’m past help.  I will go up to my chamber.”

“I think,” said the cooper, trying to look sober, “that you will find the cold-water treatment efficacious in removing the plague-spots, as you call them.”

Rachel turned towards him with a puzzled look.  Then, as her eyes rested, for the first time, upon the handkerchief which she had used, its appearance at once suggested a clew by which she was enabled to account for her own.

Somewhat ashamed of the emotion which she had betrayed, as well as the ridiculous figure which she had cut, she left the room abruptly, and did not make her appearance again till the next morning.

After this little episode, the conversation turned upon Jack’s approaching journey.

“I don’t know,” said his mother, “but Rachel is right.  Perhaps Jack isn’t old enough, and hasn’t had sufficient experience to undertake such a mission.”

“Now, mother,” expostulated Jack, “you ain’t going to side against me, are you?”

“There is no better plan,” said Mr. Crump, quietly, “and I have sufficient confidence in Jack’s shrewdness and intelligence to believe he may be trusted in this business.”

Jack looked gratified by this tribute to his powers and capacity, and determined to show that he was deserving of his father’s favorable opinion.

The preliminaries were settled, and it was agreed that he should set out early the next morning.  He went to bed with the brightest anticipations, and with the resolute determination to find Ida if she was anywhere in Philadelphia.

CHAPTER XVI.

The flower-girl.

Henry Bowen was a young artist of moderate talent, who had abandoned the farm, on which he had labored as a boy, for the sake of pursuing his favorite profession.  He was not competent to achieve the highest success.  The foremost rank in his profession was not for him.  But he had good taste, a correct eye, and a skilful hand, and his productions were pleasing and popular.  A few months before his introduction to the reader’s notice, he had formed a connection with a publisher of prints and engravings, who had thrown considerable work in his way.

“Have you any new commission this morning?” inquired the young artist, on the day before Ida’s discovery that she had been employed to pass off spurious coins.

“Yes,” said the publisher, “I have thought of something which I think may prove attractive.  Just at present, the public seem fond of pictures of children in different characters.  I should like to have you supply me with a sketch of a flower-girl, with, say, a basket of flowers in her hand.  The attitude and incidentals I will leave to your taste.  The face must, of course, be as beautiful and expressive as you can make it, where regularity of features is not sufficient.  Do you comprehend my idea?”