“I’ll keep my word if it just ruins me,” sighed Miss Scrimp. “And now, Miss Hattie, please, please do me one favor.”
“What is it?”
“Tell me who is it that is writin’ to you from Californy. I’m just dyin’ to know.”
“I cannot tell you at present,” said Hattie. “The time may not be far distant when I shall make no secret of it to you or any one else. Now you can go.”
“Thankee, Miss Hattie. I’ll live in hopes. But I’d give anything to know now.”
Hattie made no answer, and Miss Scrimp took up her lamp and crept down stairs again to mourn over the change that had got to come in her household.
And Hattie, delighted at her victory, pondered over a new thought. How would she go to work to discover if the lady who had called was really the mother of Little Jessie, and if so, how could she inform her that her child was alive and needful of a mother’s care and love?
“It can only be done by advertising, and I will do it,” said Hattie, after she had thought over it a while.
Then she took the crumpled letter of two lines only, and looked at it over and over again, with tears in her eyes.
“Oh, Father in Heaven, guide me!” she said. “Dare I trust him now? Has he surely conquered that fearful appetite or passion which drags so many noble souls down to death and perdition?”