"You are sure it is Mr. Donald Abercrombie?" said the rector, chuckling.
"Why, yes, at least——" Anita paused, for both were laughing. "Isn't that your name?" she asked the young man, "and if it is not, what is it?"
"It is José Maria Beltrán," came the answer.
"Pepé! My brother!" cried Anita and flung herself into his arms.
"My little sister, my little sister, mi hermana," murmured the young man, holding her close.
For a moment Anita stood clasped in his embrace and then broke away. "Mother! Oh, I must call mother. It is cruel to let her wait a moment." She ran to the stairs and began the ascent, crying out, "Mother, mother, come quick" at each step. Her voice, vibrating with joy and excitement, still held a sob in it. She almost dragged her mother down the steps, repeating, "Mother, oh, mother, at last, at last!" She opened the door of the sitting-room where the two men stood waiting. "See, see," cried Anita, "it isn't Donald at all. It is not his name."
For a moment the mother stood, gazing intently, taking in every detail of the young man's face. He stepped forward, holding out his hands, all the longing of his motherless years in his eyes. "Mother," he whispered.
She gave one cry: "My boy!" and was sobbing on his breast.
The rector was wiping his eyes and muttering something about the hand of Providence, something which no one listened to, he caring nothing whether they did or not, when the door opened and Aunt Manning stood on the threshold. "What's all this to-do?" she began. "I thought somebody had fallen down stairs."
Anita began to laugh hysterically, but she ran to her and began to explain. "It was I, Aunt Manning. I wasn't falling. I was—I had to get mother here as quickly as possible."