"Yes, I know Homer Bulson is a rascal," said Nelson. "But this other news——" He sank in a chair.
"Then you are David Horton, Nelson!" cried Gertrude. "I am indeed very glad of it. I know of no one I would like more for a cousin."
"David Horton!" came a hollow voice from the doorway, and Mr. Horton staggered in. "Can this be possible? It must be! See, I recognize his face now. Yes, yes; you are my son David! Come to me!" And he held out his arms.
Nelson came forward slowly, then of a sudden he reached forth, and grasped Mark Horton's hands tightly.
"I—I suppose it's true," he faltered. "But it will take me a long time to—to get used to it."
"My little David had just such eyes and hair as you have," went on Mark Horton, as he still held Nelson closely to him. "And your face reminds me greatly of your mother. There can be no mistake. You are my own little David."
"Well, I'm glad that I'm not Nelson, the nobody, any longer," stammered our young hero. He could scarcely talk intelligibly, he felt so queer.
"My own cousin David!" said Gertrude, and she, too, embraced him.
"Well, I always thought we'd be something to each other, Gertrude," said he. "But, come to think of it, if I am David Horton, then Homer Bulson is a cousin, too."