"Oh, this isn't unpleasant for us!" Betty hastened to assure her chum. "Only of course we know how you must feel about it. If we could only help you in some way!"
"I'm afraid you can't," said Amy softly. "It's good of you, though."
"It's like one of those queer puzzle stories, that end with a bump, in the middle, and leave you guessing—like 'The Lady or the Tiger,'" asserted Mollie. "I can't bear them. I get to thinking of the solution in the night and it sets me wild."
"Yes, it is like that," agreed Amy gently. "But I don't see how it can ever be known on which baby the envelope belonged."
"What became of the other baby?" asked Grace.
"I never heard, and the man who rescued me did not know either," answered Amy. "He turned us both over to the relief authorities, and, assuming that I belonged to Mr. and Mrs. Stonington, because of their address on the envelope, on my sleeve, they sent for—for my uncle, as I suppose I ought to call him, though he may not be—and he has kept me ever since."
"But there is just as much chance that you were the baby on whom the paper was pinned, as to think that you were not," came somewhat positively from Betty.
"Yes, I suppose so," Amy agreed. "But, please, let's talk about going camping. I want to forget that I may be a—nobody."
"You'll never be that, Amy—to us!" declared Mollie, positively.
"Thank you, dear."