"Of course not, but she might be talking to some of her own relations, and never know it!"
"I don't see how we can help that. People aren't labelled in families like pots of different kinds of jam, so how could we find out?"
"Oh, don't be stupid! I only mean that we must keep our eyes and our ears open and listen for every opportunity. I'm going to begin to-morrow, and if you like to help you can, and if you don't you needn't."
Greatly fired by her resolution, Sylvia was anxious to solve the secret of her friend's parentage without further delay. Unfortunately she did not know exactly how to start. It was impossible to question Mercy herself, and none of the other girls knew more than Linda had told her. She decided, therefore, that the only chance was to notice if anyone looked as if they were seeking somebody, when perhaps she might be the happy means of bringing about the fortunate meeting, and have the proud satisfaction of saying: "Here is your long-lost daughter!"
"It would be the happiest moment of my life," thought Sylvia, "nicer even than writing a book, though I mean to do that some day. Indeed I think, when it's all turned out properly, I might make it into a story, if Mercy wouldn't mind. I could call it A Waif from China, or perhaps The Little Foundling, only she's quite big now. Nobody's Darling, would sound beautiful, but she's everybody's darling, so that wouldn't do. I believe The Flower of Heathercliffe House, would be best, and at any rate I could put 'a true tale' after it. I'd have it bound in red or green, with gilt edges, and a picture of Mercy on the back."
The first step to such a flight of literary ambition was evidently to discover the missing friends; until that was settled the whole point of the volume would be lacking and it was useless to attempt even a beginning. She came home one day after the usual morning walk in a state of great excitement, overflowing with news to tell Linda, who, having a bad cold, had been obliged to stay in the house.
"What do you think?" she cried, as they stood washing their hands together in the bathroom, "I really believe I have found a clue at last!"
"A clue to what?" asked Linda, who had forgotten all about the matter by that time.
"Why, to Mercy Ingledew! Miss Coleman took us to Aberglyn this morning and along the promenade, and we sat down for a rest on one of the benches. Connie Camden and I were quite at the end, next to two ladies, and I could hear everything they were talking about. One of them, the tall, fair one, was most dreadfully sad, and said it had left a blank, and the other, the short, fat one, seemed so sorry for her and was trying to comfort her. 'When did you lose her?' she asked. I couldn't hear the answer, because Connie was whispering to me, but the short lady said: 'Dear me! as long ago as that? I am afraid you can have very little hope of ever finding her now.' Then Connie interrupted again, but I caught something about curly hair and such winning ways. 'You believe she has been traced to this neighbourhood?' the fat lady said; 'you are quite sure you would be able to know her from any other?' 'I couldn't mistake,' the tall lady said; 'her eyes alone would tell me even if she had utterly forgotten me!' It was just growing most interesting when Miss Coleman got up and we had to go, but I'm certain we're on the right track and it's Mercy they're looking for. Don't you think it must be?"
"I don't know," said Linda doubtfully; "it might be somebody else."