Jessie ran in, and Mrs. Emory, grasping Hattie’s arm, gasped out:
“You need not tell me who she is; my heart spoke the instant I saw her. It is my child—my blessed child!”
“Be calm—come in the parlor, dear madam, and let me break it to Jessie, or the poor girl will almost die in her joy. She has had a hard life here. She looks scarcely fourteen, yet she is two years older.”
“That is true,” said the matron of the asylum; “we have the date of her coming registered.”
The three ladies and Mr. Legare entered the parlor just as the blaze of the gas in three-bracket jets came flashing out.
Jessie turned, and Hattie said, as she stood there with a wondering look in her face:
“Jessie, do you want to be very, very happy? I have brought a lady here who will love you so, so much if you will only let her.”
Jessie looked at Hattie, then at Mrs. Emory, whose eyes began to fill, and, with a wild cry, sprang half way toward the latter.
“Oh, Miss Hattie!” she cried; “tell me—isn’t this the mother, the dear mother I’ve dreamed about so long—so long?”
“It is! it is! Jessie, my child, my love, come to my arms!” cried Mrs. Emory, tears of joy rushing in a flood from her eyes.