“What is it, wife?” he asked in a startled tone, and throwing the other arm around her, for she seemed about to faint.
“Look, look!” she said, pointing to Espy’s picture of the child, beneath which they were standing. “It is—it is my baby! my little Ethel! my lost darling!” she sobbed half inarticulately, gazing at it with streaming eyes.
“Ha!” cried her husband, “is it possible! My darling, are you sure?”
“Yes, yes, it is she! Could a mother’s eyes be deceived? Can a mother’s heart forget? And the woman—the one who took her from me! That is her face. I remember perfectly every lineament. Oh, Rolfe, Rolfe, it is my lost baby! And there,” pointing to the companion picture, “there she is, grown to womanhood! Is not this a clue?”
“Yes, yes; the artist—we must find him.”
Their tones had not been loud, yet, in connection with the lady’s evident agitation, had attracted some notice, and a younger pair had hurriedly pushed their way toward them, coming up so close in their rear as to catch the last two or three sentences.
“I am the artist,” said Espy, “and this,” glancing at Ethel as the others turned quickly at the sound of his voice, “is the original of those two—”
“Your name? your name?” gasped the lady, gazing eagerly, longingly, into the pale, excited face of the girl.
“Is Ethel Farnese. My mother’s was the same; and she, a widow, poor, dying as she believed, gave me to that woman—Mrs. Kemper.”
“I knew it! I knew it! My child! my long-lost child!” and instantly they were locked in each other’s arms, Ethel sobbing: