He set it upon a table, placed a chair before it, and motioned for Allison to be seated.
“In that box you will find the proof of what I have told you,” he said; then added, as if impelled by a twinge of remorse: “I would have saved you this, Allison, had you been reasonable.”
“Reasonableness! Do you call it unreasonable for a girl to refuse to be coerced into an uncongenial marriage?” she cried, passionately, her face flaming scarlet, although she was trembling from head to foot with mingled suspense and apprehension.
“Where is the key to this?” she demanded, sinking into the chair before the table and without giving the man a chance to reply.
He took a ring of keys from his pocket, detached one from it, and passed it to her without speaking.
Allison could not have been whiter if she had been carved from marble as she inserted the tiny bit of brass in the lock, turned it, and threw open the cover of the mysterious box.
A low, inarticulate cry broke from her as she caught sight of the infant’s clothing within, and instantly surmised the truth; yet, even in her amazement and horror over the terrible revelation, she noted how exquisitely fine was the material from which the garments had been made—how rich the various trimmings—how pure the tiny diamond that gleamed in the small golden key that was pinned upon the yoke of the little dress.
She removed the articles one by one, laying them upon the table, until she emptied the box of all its contents save that brief note, written by the unknown mother, and Mrs. Brewster’s confession to her husband.
Allison unfolded the letter first, and read it through to the end without making a sign of the suffering that nearly cleft her heart in twain, as she realized how, in an instant of time, as it were, she had been cut adrift from every human tie that had bound her to her supposed parents.
Then she perused the other, studying every line and dot of the few brief words which had doubtless been penned by the hand of her own mother.