“I’m delighted, at any rate, dear mother,” was the pardonably evasive reply.
“Not more than I am!” exclaimed the good creature. Notwithstanding the loss she expected to sustain through the discovery which had been made, she had schooled herself to rejoice in the happiness which had come to her child. “But,” she added, “you, my dear, will be more delighted still, when you hear the news I have to tell.”
As she spoke, she led the young secretary to a chair, and, having caused her to be seated, sat down on another chair by her side. Then she took her companion’s hand and held it tenderly in her lap.
“My dear, I want to ask you something.”
The good lady tried to be calm, but her tones grew tremulous as she spoke. Miss Owen, too, was becoming excited, in spite of herself.
“Yes, mother dear,” and the girl seemed to put special and loving emphasis on the word “mother.”
“Do you remember,” continued Mrs. Burton, “how, when you were all at Daisy Lane, at the opening of the ‘Home,’ we were talking about Mr. Horn having lost his little girl in some mysterious fashion; and you said, laughing, what fun it would be, if you turned out to be that very little girl?”
“Yes, mother,” was the reply, uttered in low and agitated tones, “I remember very well.”
“You didn’t think that such a wonderful thing would ever come to pass, did you, dear?” asked Mrs. Burton, gently stroking the back of the plump little brown hand, which lay passive in her lap.
“No,” replied the girl, “I certainly did not; and it was just a mad joke, of course.”