“Marilla Bond. Yes. I know the child. What of her?”
“I’ll begin at the very first. Hardly two years ago Peter Schermerhorn died at the age of ninety-eight. He was the black sheep of an otherwise respectable family, went off and spent his portion in riotous living, afterward bought a tract of ground above Harlem, turned hermit, raised geese and ducks and pigs, married and had three daughters and they in turn married, glad, I suppose, to get away from the penurious living. So it went on. He had to give up the pigs and geese, did a little gardening and two years ago died without a will. Oddly enough he had kept a family record which has been of great service to us. The old shanty was a disgrace, the ground valuable. 219 The city was bringing up one of its fine avenues and a syndicate made a proffer for the land. Of course the heirs soon scented this out, and our firm has been trying to settle the estate so the property can be turned into money, and a good deed given. We have found about everybody, I believe, but the mother of this child who is in very direct descent, eluded us a long while.”
“And this child is one of the heirs?” in surprise.
“Exactly. Her mother came here after her marriage. The father was killed in some machinery mishap. The mother was in a store, a bakery, I believe, and dying, gave her little girl to the friend she had lived with, and the friend married and went out to Easton. We found she did not take the child with her but put her in this Bethany Home with some important papers. So we want the child and the papers.”
“The child was twelve, a year ago September. She was bound-out to some fairly nice people as a little nursemaid. And an heiress!” in a tone of glad surprise.
“Well not to any great extent. There are a 220 good many heirs it seems—ten thousand or so. But we had to know whether she was living or not on account of the title.”
His little Cinderella! Truly this was a fairy story. “Oh, are you quite sure?” he said.
“Oh, there’s no doubt, if she is the true heir. But the woman at Easton attested a very straight story and knew of the husband’s death, though she had not known him personally. The money is on the mother’s side, you see, so his death is neither here nor there. And now—can’t we go out and interview this place and the keeper?”
“Hardly tonight. The matron is a rather rigid person I believe. We had best tackle her by daylight, and the child is almost in this vicinity. A rather unusual child I think, very sweet natured. Oh, I can’t express all my delight. She is the kind of girl that ought to be educated, that should live in an atmosphere of love, and she is not really strong enough to take the rough and tumble of life. Oh, I can’t tell you how glad I am.” Lorimer surveyed his friend with a rather humorous smile. They had been chums during a summer in Switzerland 221 and Holland, but he had not thought Richards much given to either love or romance.
Then they branched off into old times when both had been rather wasteful. Lorimer was working hard to redeem that youthful extravagance; Dr. Richards cared nothing at all for the moneyed end of life.