When he awoke, he began calling for "Fwank," and searching for him, with tears and lamentations, looking everywhere for him, and calling incessantly. Betty, at last, in despair, told him that Frank was dead. She hardly expected the child to understand. But Frank's innocent talk about his unforgotten little sister had made Fred familiar with the idea of death to some extent, and, after a long stare of horror, the poor little fellow began to scream, and nothing that Betty could say or do seemed to make any difference. The doctor, busy about the inquest, was near at hand, and after some vain attempts to quiet the child, he had to give him a sleeping draught, which soon had the desired effect.
But when Fred woke again, he was very ill; he was quite delirious, and talked fast and indistinctly about "muddie" and "Fwank" and "gwandma." It was many a long day before he could be questioned, and when they tried to do so, he seemed to have forgotten everything and every one.
Several attempts were made, more with a view to finding out who the child was than with any reference to Frank's death. For by that time, Frank's little grave was green; the doctor, feeling sure that some day the children would be inquired about, had had him buried at his own expense beside his own little son, his only child, who had died but a short time previously. But no information could be got from poor Fred, whose little white face, with the wistful dark eyes, looked full of intelligence, but whose memory, for the present at least, seemed a blank. At last the doctor forbade any further questioning of the child.
"I am sure," he said, "that as he regains his strength, his mind will recover from the shock, but you may seriously injure him, if you do not leave him in peace now."
Every effort was made, of course, to trace the children's wanderings, and they were tracked back some stages in their journey. But then all trace was lost. The distance the poor little things had come in the luggage van was so great that the inquiries made were never heard of by any one who knew them; nothing but their initials was marked on their clothing, and, save the photograph of his father, Frank had had nothing in his pocket. Even the photograph told nothing, for it had been originally a cabinet-size portrait, and poor Janet had cut out the head to fit it into a little leather case, so that the name and address of the photographer were wanting.
"Really," said Dr. Wentworth one day, when he had looked in to see Fred, "really, Betty, if we send this child to the union, he'll probably grow up an idiot."
"Send him to the union?" interrupted Betty. "Is it the child I've nursed through that terrible fever, and that has slept in my old arms every night since I got him? What do you take me for, doctor?"
"For a good old body with a hasty tongue, Betty. Just let me finish my remarks, please. If he goes to the union, he'll end in being an idiot. Therefore, it would be doubly cruel to send him there. Now, if you can continue to keep him for a while, I'll help you. I feel sure the child will be looked for, and whoever finds him will find only one where two were lost. But we need not add to their grief."
"I don't need any help, doctor, so far. Only for clothes. I'll keep the child. I've got to love him."
"Clothes? Yes; I'll speak to my wife. We'll clothe him, and pay for his schooling, if he ever needs any. Meanwhile, do you get him to help you in any little way he is able for, and keep him out in the fresh air. Never talk to him of the night he came to you, and I really believe he'll be all right in a while. I'm afraid he will hardly remember anything that will help to identify him, because he's such a little creature. Poor little waif! He was in luck when he chose your door to creep up to."