"Not unless you'd rather, dear," and Betty put her arms about her chum as they sat on the worn sofa in Miss Greene's retiring room.
"I had much rather. I want you and Grace and Mollie to know. Maybe—maybe you can help me," she finished with a bright smile.
"You see it was this way. Of course I don't remember anything about it. All my recollections are centered in Deepdale, and about Mr. and Mrs. Stonington. It is the only home I have ever really known, though I have a dim recollection of having, as a child, been in some other place. But that is like a dream.
"But it seems that when I was a very little girl both my parents lived in a distant city. Then one day there was a terrible storm, the river rose, and there was a flood. This I was told by my uncle and aunt, as I am going to call them. Who my father and mother were I never knew, except from what I have heard, but it seems that Mrs. Stonington was mamma's aunt.
"In the flood our house was washed away, but I, then a small baby, was found floating on a sort of raft tied to a mattress on a bed. I was taken to a farm house, and found pinned to my dress was an envelope."
"Just an envelope?"
"Yes. There might have been a letter in it, but if there was it had been washed out in the flood and rain. But the envelope was addressed to Mrs. Stonington here, and she was telegraphed to. Her husband hurried on, for he knew of the flood and feared for his wife's relatives who lived in that town. He took me back with him, and I have lived with Uncle John and Aunt Sarah ever since."
"But your father and mother, Amy?"
"No one ever knew what became of them. They—they were never found, though a careful search was made. I was the only one left."
"And was there nothing to tell of your past life?"