"And you don't know!" she exclaimed.
"I wish I did," repeated Mrs. Bruce. "Mary Jane and I was just talking of her. Gone, poor lamb, she and her mother, and I know nothing of them."
And Mrs. Bruce proceeded to detail the history of Nora and her mother, so far as she knew it. The sad, simple story left no doubt upon Penelope's mind as to who they were.
"Nora Phillips," she said to herself. "Yes, she was Mrs. Mayne, I feel sure, and so near us!"
"PENELOPE—IS IT PENELOPE?"—Drawn by E. A. Abbey.
She confided a few facts only to Mrs. Bruce, and then sorrowfully drove back to the Deanery, where she and Aunt Letty held a long confab in the twilight. What could be done? Aunt Letty cried, and Penelope shook her head sadly, but she declared that she would not give up the search suggested in so strange a manner that it seemed her duty to continue it. Could Penelope and her aunt have seen Nora at that moment, I fear they would have gone to rest with a bitterer heart-ache.
Afternoon service was over the next day at the abbey church, yet Penelope lingered with little Joe, loitering down the path, where the snow still lay white on the ground, talking to the little boy about the service, which that day had peculiarly impressed her. She was thinking of Nora Mayne, recalling Mrs. Bruce's description of the sweet young girl whose life was so heavily burdened.
"And I," thought Penny, with a shamefaced color—"I have everything, and yet how cross and selfish I am!"
"Penelope! Penelope!" cried out little Joe, pulling at her hand; "see those sparrows—do they mind the snow?"