"Do you know me, Edith Hastings, Eloise Temple, Marguerite
Bernard? Have we never met before?"
Like the rushing of some mighty, pent up flood the past swept over her then, almost bearing her senses down with the headlong tide; link after link was joined, until the chain of evidence was complete, and with a scream of joy Edith went forward to the arms unfolded to receive her.
"Marie, Marie!" she cried, "How is it? When was it? Where was it?
Am I anybody or not, tell me?"
Then question followed question go rapidly that Marie, with all her voluble French and broken English, was hardly able to keep up. But the whole was told at last; everything was clear to Edith as the daylight, and tottering to the bed, she asked to be alone, while she wept and prayed over this great joy, which had come so suddenly upon her.
"Nina, Nina. I thank thee, oh, my Father, for sweet, precious
Nina."
That was all she could say, as with her face in the pillows, she lay until the sun went down, and night fell a second time on Sunnybank.
"No one shall tell her but myself," she thought as she descended to Nina's room, where Arthur was telling of the discovery they had made—a discovery for which he could not account, and about which the negroes, congregated together in knots, were talking, each offering his or her own theory with regard to the matter, and never once thinking to question Mrs. Lamotte, who, they knew, had been with Mrs. Bernard when she died.
"Oh, Miggie!" Nina cried. "HAVE you heard? do you know? Little Miggie isn't there where we thought she was. She's gone. Nobody's there but my other mother."
"Yes, I know," Edith answered, and laying her hand on Arthur's she said, "Please, Mr. St Claire, go away awhile. I must see Nina alone. Don't let anybody disturb us, will you? Go to Mrs. Lamotte. Ask her what I mean. She can tell you. She told me."
Thus importuned, Arthur left the room, and Edith was alone with
Nina.