A tap upon the door was followed by the entrance of an old friend, a trained nurse from one of the city hospitals, who was cordially invited to break bread with the hostess.
“I will,” she assented, “but first I must tell you of this,” and she took from its wrappings an ebony box of curious workmanship, inlaid with pearl, beautiful in design and finish.
“Where did you get it?” asked the matron, taking it in her hand.
“It was put in my care by a patient at the hospital who said he had brought a girl here named Jerusha Flint, and her brother Horace. He asked me to bring it to you to keep safely and give it to Jerusha when she is sixteen. He said she had often been shown by her mother how to open it, and would remember how it is done; you see it has no key.”
“Did he say that he is the father of these children?”
“No. I have told you all that he said; for he became delirious, and although he talked to himself in a low tone or a whisper, there was nothing connected enough to let us know who he is. All I can say is that with his blonde hair, deep blue eyes and tinge of color in his face, now that he has fever, he is as handsome as a picture.”
“I wonder how long he will remain in the hospital?”
“Until he is carried out, if I am not greatly mistaken. He has brain fever, his system is completely run down and the doctors say that he has suffered a severe nervous shock. There is no hope whatever of his recovery.”
“Has he no friends, I wonder?”
“No one has called to see him. The doctor found a letter in his pocket, addressed and sealed, but not stamped. He asked me to write to the gentleman whose name and address was upon it, and inform him that a man who had taken two children named Flint to an orphan asylum was lying at the hospital dangerously ill. I did so, enclosing the letter, but there was no reply to either.”