"I don't know," Mr. North said, jumping up and putting down his pipe. He disappeared from the kitchen, and Mrs. North, accustomed to her son's always doing the right thing, quietly waited.
He was only gone two minutes, but he returned with a slower step. In his arms he bore Jesse's apparently lifeless figure. His poor garments hung wet about him—his face against Mr. North's rough coat was like some rain-washed, beaten-down white flower; but his thin little hands still clasped the "treasure."
"Why, Peter North!" exclaimed the old lady.
Mr. North slowly shook his head.
"Ef that thar old fiend has killed him," he whispered, solemnly, "I vow I'll hev her hung."
Very tenderly he deposited the child on the big soft lounge which stood not far from the fire-place, and it was not long before he and his mother had devised restoratives.
Mrs. North knew just what to do. She ran up stairs, and in a few moments a bright wood fire was crackling in the spare room, while she and her little servant Jenny aired sheets, and made a comfortable bed. Jesse was soon brought up stairs, and snugly tucked in.
Then after administering a hot drink, and bidding him go to sleep, the good lady went down to her son again.
He was standing before the fire, holding Miss Holsover's treasure in his hands. Jesse had contrived to make them understand what had happened at the farm, but something else was absorbing the good-hearted man.
"Mother," he said, "jest look here. These things are that child's. Look what's written on the package." And he handed it to Mrs. North. The old lady scanned it curiously. In a faded but delicate and refined hand was written the following: