“Here at last? You have found it then? The shawl!—the shawl! Oh, sister, you have it! But how can you tell if it is the same? I must be assured of that.”
“Why, Ross, what is the matter? Do you know this man? What is my shawl to you?”
“Your shawl!”
“Yes, brother!”
“And you got it of this man?”
“It seems that it came from him!”
“Yes, it is the same! I will swear to it! Oh, sir! the time I have taken to search it out is well worth all you promised.”
“Perhaps. I do not know yet. Give me the shawl, sister; in half an hour I will return.”
Ross was white in the face. He took up the shawl, and gazed upon it, until tears absolutely trembled in his eyes. Then he folded the garment carefully, as one handles a shroud, and went forth, carrying it in his hand.
Mrs. Laurence was busy in her kitchen, absolutely humming over an old-fashioned love-song, for the great load of a hard life had been lifted from her shoulders, and awkward gleams of cheerfulness were beginning to dawn in upon her.