“Gladys!” suddenly said a voice above the murmurings of the throng of passengers.
Gladys raised her head. “Papa!” she cried, staggering to her feet. “Were you on that car?”
Another figure detached itself from the crowd and hastened forward. “Mother!” cried Gladys. “Oh, if I hadn’t been able to stop it—” and at the horror of the idea her strength deserted her and she slipped quietly to the ground at her parents’ feet.
When she came to the car had gone on and she was lying in the grass by the roadside with her head in her mother’s lap. “Cheer up, you’re all right,” said her mother a little unsteadily, smiling down at her. Gladys now became aware of two other figures that were standing in the road.
“Aunt Beatrice!” she cried. “And Uncle Lynn! What are you doing here?”
“We all came out to surprise you,” said her father. “We got back from the West last night; sooner than we expected, and decided we would run out without any warning and see what kind of farmers you were. The automobile is being overhauled so we came on the interurban. We didn’t know it didn’t stop at your road.”
Then, Gladys suddenly remembered her own disabled car standing in the road, and they all moved toward it. With a little tinkering it condescended to run and they were soon at Onoway House, telling the exciting tale to Mrs. Gardiner, who held up her hands in horror at the thought of the fate which the newcomers had so narrowly escaped. Aunt Beatrice, not being strong, was much agitated, and developed a palpitation of the heart, and had to lie in the hammock on the porch and be doctored, so Gladys had her hands full until the girls came back. They were much surprised at the houseful of company and very glad to see Mr. and Mrs. Evans, who were very good friends of the Winnebagos indeed. They looked with interest when Aunt Beatrice was introduced, for they all remembered the tragic story Gladys had told them about the loss of her baby in the hotel fire. Aunt Beatrice felt well enough to get up then and acknowledge the introductions with a sweet but infinitely sad smile that went straight to their hearts, and brought tears to the eyes of the soft-hearted Hinpoha.
Ophelia came in last, having loitered on the lawn to play with Pointer and Mr. Bob. She had taken off her hat and was swinging it around in her hand when she came up on the porch. “And this is the little sister of the Winnebagos,” said Nyoda, drawing her forward. Aunt Beatrice looked down at the dust-streaked little face, with her sad smile, but her eyes rested there only an instant. She was gazing as if fascinated at the strange ring of light hair on her head. She became very pale and her eyes widened until they seemed to be the biggest part of her face.
“Lynn!” she gasped in a choking voice, “Lynn! Look!” and she sank on the floor unconscious. “It can’t be! It can’t be!” she kept saying faintly when they revived her. “Beatrice died in the fire. But Beatrice had that ring of light hair on her head! It can’t be! But there never were two such birthmarks!”
What a hubbub arose when this startling possibility was uttered! Ophelia, the lost Beatrice? Could it possibly be true? Uncle Lynn lost no time in finding out. Taking Ophelia with him he hunted up Old Grady. She knew nothing more save that she had gotten her from an orphan asylum, which she named. At the asylum he learned what he wanted to know. The superintendent remembered about Ophelia on account of the strange ring of light hair. The child had been brought to the institution when she was about a year old. There was a babies’ dispensary in connection with the place, and into this a weak, haggard girl of about eighteen had staggered one day carrying a baby. The baby was sick and she begged them to make it well. While she sat waiting for the nurse to look at the baby the girl collapsed. She died in a charity hospital a few days later. On her death-bed she confessed that she had run away from a large hotel with the baby which had been left in her care, intending to hide it and get money from the parents for its recovery. But she feared this would lead her into trouble and left town with the child and never troubled the parents as she had intended, and kept the baby with her until it fell sick, when she had become frightened and sought the dispensary. She apparently never knew that the hotel had burned and covered up the traces of her flight. The baby was kept at the orphan asylum and named Ophelia. Her last name had never been known. Thence Old Grady had adopted her, but her right could be taken away from her as it was clear that she was no fit person to have the child.