"Then we had strangely vivid dreams of her. Very sad dreams they were; she always appeared to us pale, and sorrowful, and thin, as though pinched with want. Of late years we have dreamed of her more seldom; and, singularly enough, when we have dreamed, she has worn to both of us a changed and happier look. So we feel at last that somewhere, in this or a better world, 'it is well with the child.'

"The health of Mrs. Phillips received a great shock in this loss; in fact, she has never been quite well since. She has been threatened with consumption, and has been obliged to spend most of her winters in the South. I think she still mourns for her first-born; no other child has yet been able to fill her place."

"You have then other children?" said Mr. Raeburn.

"Yes, three; two boys, of eleven and nine, and a little girl, now nearly five years old."

Here Mary felt a happy glow overspread her veiled face, and her heart palpitated with a new joy.

"Believe me, my dear sir," said Mr. Raeburn, after a pause, "I have not drawn from you this painful story from mere curiosity. My friend now present, Miss Morton, is acquainted with a young girl who believes herself to have been stolen in her early childhood, from a happy home and kind parents, by a vulgar and cruel woman, who hid her for years in a wretched den in the worst part of New York. But, my dear Miss Morton, you can tell the story better than I; will you not do so?"

Mary began in a voice low and tremulous, but of penetrating sweetness, thus: "That poor young girl was, while yet a child, not wholly lost and wicked, rescued from a life of sin and beggary by some good kind friends, whom God will bless for ever and ever! When they took pity on her, she had forgotten her true last name; it had been frightened out of her memory, or driven out by blows; but she knew that her first name was Mary, though she was only called Molly, and she had not forgotten her true parents, though she called them her dream father and mother, because they came to her in her sleep, to kiss her and comfort her. She was surrounded by squalor and wretchedness; but she never quite forgot her old beautiful home, for her dim sweet memories of it were all she knew of heaven."

Here Mary rose and threw back her veil, as she continued, "And she hopes, she believes that this is her old home, for she recognizes everything around her. O yes, I know that carved mantel, that ebony writing-case, that screen, that bust, and that picture over the cabinet. It is mamma's portrait!"

Mr. Phillips uttered an exclamation of joyful surprise and started forward, but immediately fearful of some mistake, calmed himself, and merely said, "Will you let me see you without your bonnet?"

Mary hastily uncovered her beautiful head, and stood before him, a soft, timid smile playing about her lips, and a tremulous light of love and joy in her eyes. Mr. Phillips looked from that yearning young face to the one on the canvas,—so wonderfully like they were! "It is enough!" he exclaimed; "I know you for our daughter, our long-lost lamb! O Father in heaven, I thank Thee!"