"Is it not possible that their name is Proudfoot or Proudfit, and that 'Saacyfut' is Betty's way of calling it?"
The General laughed heartily.
"Hardly, I think," he said; "and yet—I do not know. It may be. But it never struck me. It took a woman's wit to think of that."
"We will ask Daisy when she comes," said Mrs. Forster. "If Proudfoot was their name, she must remember it when she hears it spoken, I think. She can hardly have forgotten it so entirely that she would not recognize it. And then, if it should be so, it will be a help to find her friends." Mrs. Forster spoke the last words more slowly.
"Yes," said her husband, giving words to the thought which had made her half unwilling to utter them; "and if found, we must give up our Daisy."
"But we must not seek them the less for that," she said, "or I shall feel as if we had found some lovely jewel that we were striving to hide from the rightful owner. I know what terrible longings must fill her mother's heart;" and a tear dropped from Mrs. Forster's eye on her baby's face, as she clasped it more tenderly than ever in her arms.
"Daisy," said the General that evening, as the little girl stood by his knee, "did you ever hear the name of Proudfoot?"
Daisy started, drew a quick, gasping breath, and suddenly threw herself into his arms.
"That is it!" she cried, in a rapid, excited manner, "that is it! That is my name, that is what they called papa and mamma. I never heard it since; but I know it now. I am Daisy Proudfoot, I am, I am!"
It was some time before the child's excitement could be calmed; but there was no farther knowledge to be gained from her. Proudfoot was her name, of that she was quite sure; and the recollection of it at this late hour seemed to fill her with a kind of tremulous happiness; but still she could not tell where she belonged.