“And now I am going to place something about your neck which was yours many years ago, this little locket which was your mother’s.”
Helen Standish took the trinket, and lifted it tenderly to her lips.
“I’ve never known another mother but you, Biddy, and no other friend but Tom, but pardon me if I weep for my dead mother.”
She rose to her feet, and walked away toward the window, where the night shadows were falling. Her heart beat gratefully for these two good people who had taken her into their lives and home.
“Tom,” she began without looking at him, “I can remember many times I have been naughty and seemed ungrateful to you, but will you believe that all my life I have loved you better than any one else?”
There was the big Irishwoman waiting for her turn, and her little sob drew Nellie’s attention.
“And you, too, my own Biddy. I do not deserve all you have done for me. I have always meant to be a good girl, but have failed miserably.”
“Now, now, my pretty darlint,” sobbed Biddy, “don’t you go and make your hearties cry. We both loves you, and there ain’t nothing to forgive, is there, Tom?”
“No, indeed,” and then such a longing came over him that his heart seemed suffocated, and he wanted to take the girl in his arms and press her to his bosom, and something in his face seemed to tell the girl of his wish.
“Say it, Tom,” whispered she, oblivious of Biddy’s presence.