"Went away?" asked the other. "I thought you said she died."
"She must have died, for she was very ill," said the girl. "But I don't know what became of her—she never came back."
The man was gazing at her in surprise. "Never came back?" he echoed; and then he added, "What was your mother's name?"
"Helen," said she; and he sunk back.
"Ah, it was an awful thing," went on the girl, her voice trembling. "Poor, dear mother, how hard she worked to take care of me—and how good she was! She worked herself to death, Jim, that's the truth."
"What was the matter with her?"
"She had consumption," said the girl, and she saw him start. "What's the matter?" she asked.
"Nothing," said he, "that is—it's just a queer coincidence; but what was your father's name?"
"I never knew anything about my father," said the girl. "Mother never told me; but I always suspected that he had not married her—that is—"
She stopped again, for his manner was strange; then, however, she went on. "I think he was rich," she said, "and very handsome and good. She gave me a locket with his picture that she said only he would have the key to open; she had lost the one he gave her."