"O yes, Monsieur, to a person like you, but not to the idly curious. Indeed, for that matter, they have been mostly forgotten. So many things have happened to distract attention."
He rose and went to the old escritoire. Unlocking a drawer he took out a parcel folded in a piece of cloth.
"The clothes she wore," he said, "even to the little shoes of deerskin. There is nothing special about them to denote that she was the child of a rich person."
That was very true, St. Armand saw, except that the little stockings were fine and bore the mark of imported goods. He mused over them.
The priest opened a small, oblong box that still had the scent of snuff about it. On it was the name of Bellestre. So that was no clew.
"Here is the necklet and the little ring and the paper with her name. Madame Bellestre placed these in my hand some time before she died."
The chain was slender and of gold, the locket small; inside two painted miniatures but very diminutive, and both of them young. One would hardly be able to identify a middle aged person from them. There was no mark or initials, save an undecipherable monogram.
"It is a pity there are no more chances of identification," St. Armand said. "This and the stockings come from France. And if the poor mother was dead—"
"There are so many orphans, Monsieur. Kind people take them in. I know of some who have been restored to their families. It is my dream to gather them in one home and train them to useful lives. It may come if we have peace for a while."
"She has a trusty guardian in you."