"O-h!" breathed Jennie, with tremulous eagerness.
"The initials 'A. A. to M. A. J.,' on the clasp, stand for 'Alfred Arnold to Mildred Arnold Jennison,'" the gentleman continued. "I am Alfred Arnold. When my niece wrote me of the birth of her little daughter, and that she had named her 'Mildred' for her mother, and 'Arnold,' for me, I bought this string of amber in Calcutta, had the initials engraved on the clasp and sent it to the tiny stranger."
"Then—then I am—you are—" began Jennie, falteringly.
"You are my grandniece—I am your great-uncle. My child, do you think you will care to own the relationship?"
But the girl was, for the moment, beyond the power of speech.
To have the harassing mystery of her life solved at last; to learn something definite regarding her family, even though no one remained to claim her save this distant relative, yet to find in him a cultured gentleman, and reaching out to her with tender yearning, as the only link with his past—was more than she could bear with composure. To have tried to speak just then would have precipitated a burst of tears and she "wouldn't cry in public."
So she could only throw out an impulsive, trembling hand to him and smile faintly into the grave, kind face beside her.
He folded it within his own and patted it soothingly with a fatherly air.
"Little girl, little girl!" he said, huskily, but tenderly, "I can hardly believe it! I was becoming discouraged in my quest; but I begin to think now that life is worth living, even though the dear one I sought is gone and I shall never see her again in this life."
"My mother! my father—have you their—" but Jennie was obliged to stop again because of the refractory lump in her throat.