“It was at the close of December, the night before New Years.”
“It is—it must be she!” ejaculated the lady, clasping her hands while tears of happy joy welled from her eyes.
“I—I do not understand,” said Jack.
“My young friend, our meeting this morning seems providential. I have every reason to believe that this child—your adopted sister—is my daughter, stolen from me by an unknown enemy at the time of which you speak. From that day to this I have never been able to obtain the slightest clew that might lead to her discovery. I have long taught myself to look upon her as dead.”
“It was Jack's turn to be surprised. He looked at the lady beside him. She was barely thirty. The beauty of her girlhood had ripened into the maturer beauty of womanhood. There was the same dazzling complexion—the same soft flush upon the cheeks. The eyes, too, were wonderfully like Ida's. Jack looked, and what he saw convinced him.
“You must be right,” he said. “Ida is very much like you.”
“You think so?” said Mrs. Clifton, eagerly.
“Yes, madam.”
“I had a picture—a daguerreotype—taken of Ida just before I lost her. I have treasured it carefully. I must show it to you.”
The carriage stopped before a stately mansion in a wide and quiet street. The driver dismounted, and opened the door. Jack assisted Mrs. Clifton to alight.