“Why, you are Morris Goldberg, of New York, are you not?”
“I am if I am lifing, but how you know me I cannot see.”
“I can tell you. Because you took a poor, forsaken, heart-broken wreck and taught her that it was never too late to mend. You helped me to come out here and reform, and Heaven will bless you for it. I haven’t touched a drop since that day.”
“Dot’s right. Don’t efer touch it again, and I von’t, eider. Vell, vell! vot for a change. I vouldn’t effer haf known you.”
“I am out here, alone, with the mountains, the sky, the birds and flowers, and the wild creatures. I live close—oh, very close—to Nature, in a little shack. I never come down, except when there is sickness or accident—some one that needs care and devotion. Those are all the riches I have, but I find them enough. You see me well and strong, quite a different being from the miserable creature you saved. My brain is clear, my health perfect, and I owe it all to you. But what are you doing here?”
“Mein chilt, my daughter, Dora, vos stolen! Und I am out here looking for her. I t’ink she cannot be much farder avay. I haf a feelings in mein heart dot she vill pe fount, but it is a long time.”
Just then Shoshone came into the room. There was a strange gleam in his eyes, and a new manner quite unknown to Helen. He walked quietly, but there was a suppressed excitement in his walk and look, but he kept quiet. Helen was saying:
“Your daughter stolen! How I wish to Heaven that I could help you! Have you any idea who took her away?”
“From what de Loney say, it vos Dopey Mack und de tall smooth-faced man vot vos in mein shop de first day you comet.”
“What did your daughter look like, pardner?” asked Shoshone quietly.