Dear Mother Barberin! she imagined that everybody must love me because she did!
“She’s a fine woman,” said Mattia; “very fine, she thought of me! Now let’s see what Mr. Driscoll has to say.”
“He might have forgotten the things.”
“Does one forget the clothes that their child wears when it was kidnaped? Why, it’s only through its clothes that they can find it.”
“Wait until we hear what he says before we think anything.”
It was not an easy thing for me to ask my father how I was dressed on the day that I was stolen. If I had put the question casually without any underthought, it would have been simple enough. As it was I was timid. Then one day when the cold sleet had driven me home earlier than usual, I took my courage in both hands, and broached the subject that was causing me so much anxiety. At my question my father looked me full in the face. But I looked back at him far more boldly than I imagined that I could at this moment. Then he smiled. There was something hard and cruel in the smile but still it was a smile.
“On the day that you were stolen from us,” he said slowly, “you wore a flannel robe, a linen robe, a lace bonnet, white woolen shoes, and a white embroidered cashmere pelisse. Two of your garments Were marked F.D., Francis Driscoll, your real name, but this mark was cut out by the woman who stole you, for she hoped that in this way you would never be found. I’ll show you your baptismal certificates which, of course, I still have.”
He searched in a drawer and soon brought forth a big paper which he handed to me.
“If you don’t mind,” I said with a last effort, “Mattia will translate it for me.”
“Certainly.”