“I am sure,” said Floy, gratefully, “that I am much obliged, and I don’t know how I can repay you.”
“You have already,” said the old man with feeling. “I don’t know how I should have got along without you when I was sick.”
“Floy,” said Martin, thoughtfully, as they came out from the dressmaker’s, “although you have been with me for some time, I have never thought to ask your name,—I mean your other name besides Floy.”
“My name is not Floy,” said the child. “They only call me so. My real name is Florence,—Florence Eastman.”
“Florence Eastman!” said the old man, starting back in uncontrollable agitation. “Who was your mother? Tell me quick!”
“Her name,” said the child, somewhat surprised, “was Florence Kendrick.”
“Who was her father?”
“Martin Kendrick.”
“And where is he? Did you ever see him?”
“No,” said Floy, shaking her head. “He was angry with mother for marrying as she did, and would never see any of us.”