“Mamma is here, my baby. Did you think mamma never, never would come?”
The child snuggled close in her arms, too exhausted to utter a word.
“Look up, dearest; mamma has you! Smile, mother’s darling, mamma has found her lost baby.”
“Yes, praise God! You’ve found your boy, Mrs. Rowe, and found him not one minute too soon,” muttered Captain Bradstreet, throwing up the windows. “If he had not made himself heard, he might have shared the fate of Ginevra.”
“Don’t mention it, Captain Bradstreet,” shuddered Mrs. Rowe. “The story of Ginevra flashed into my mind the moment I discovered where Donald was.”
“Who was Ginevra, anyway, Molly?” asked Kirke, a little later.
The Captain and Pauline had gone, Mr. Rowe had come home, and the color was returning to Donald’s cheeks.
“Oh! don’t you know, Kirke? Why, Ginevra was that gay young bride,—Italian, I believe,—who ran off after her wedding, and hid herself in a chest.”
“What did she do that for?”
“Why just for fun, to make the guests hunt for her. They were all playing hide-and-go-seek.”