“Oh, yes. Didn't I mention it? His name was Arthur Pierson.”
Corbitt and his wife both started from their seats.
“Man, did I hear ye aright?—Arthur F. Pierson?”
“That was the name exactly. I can show it to you on the letters.”
“An' he charged ye to give the half of all ye found to his daughter Polly?”
“Yes, and I mean to try to find her.”
“There she sits!” cried Mother Corbitt excitedly, before her cautious husband, could say “Hush!”—pointing at Marion, who gazed from one to the other, too much amazed to feel grieved yet at this stunning announcement. “We took the lassie when she was a wee bairn, and she would never ha' known she wasn't ours really till maybe we were dead and gone. Her feyther was a cankert, fashious body, but her mother was guid and bonnie (I knew her well in the auld country) and she died when Mary—that's you, my dearie—was born.”
“Is this her picture?” Tom asked, showing the daguerrotype.
“Aye, that it is. Puir Jennie!”
The rest is soon told. A company of capitalists was formed to work the four consolidated claims on the new vein, under the name of the Hope Mining Company.