“I will, father.”
“Why, Dick!” exclaimed Jennie, when they were once more alone and headed for the elevated station again. “Please tell me what this means. Is this gentleman really your father? I thought you told us your father was dead.”
“So I did, and so I supposed he was,” replied the boy, whose feelings were a mixture of joy and bewilderment over this strange and unexpected discovery.
And on the way to her home, in Seventy-second Street, he told her what he had learned about his parentage from the old diary once kept by Silas Maslin, which he had found in the attic of the storekeeper’s house at Cobham’s Corner.
“It was but a bare outline of one short week in my young life’s history,” he said in conclusion, “but it gave me the key to the mystery which had till that moment surrounded my parentage—the secret the Maslins never divulged for reasons of their own. But I shall soon know all. Yes,” cried the boy, tears of wistful eagerness stealing into his fine eyes, “to-night before I sleep I shall know who my mother was—for something tells me she is not alive—that she died long, long ago, probably about the time my father carried me to Franconia.”
Jennie was much affected and treated him with a sympathetic gentleness that warmed his heart toward her more than ever.
“You must bring your father to see us, Dick, very soon. Remember, we are all interested in you and whatever concerns you. You will do this, won’t you?” she said, laying her hand on his arm as they stood at the outside entrance of her home.
“Yes,” said the boy, with glistening eyes, “I will. He will be glad to know those who have been so kind to me. Do you know,” he cried with impetuous suddenness, “I wish you were my sister?”
“Do you?” said Jennie, blushing like a rose and suddenly looking down.
“Yes, I do.”