"For my child Jesse. To be sent to my brother, Paul Martin, —— Beacon Street, Boston, July 6, 1865."
"I see through it all," said Mr. North. "That old skinflint has kep' 'em from him. Seems to me we ought to look to it that he never goes back."
Mrs. North looked at her son with moistened eyes.
"It's the Lord as sent him," she said, softly, and Mr. North bowed his head.
The sun was shining brightly St. Valentine's morning when Mr. North, leaving Jesse on the lounge near the fire, started for Boston.
Once in that city, he proceeded directly to the Beacon Street address. It was a quiet old-fashioned house on a corner, and on Mr. North's inquiry of the butler for Mr. Martin, he was told that that gentleman had been dead five years, but his widow lived there. So Mr. North was ushered into a beautiful room, full of books and pictures and quiet colors, to wait for the lady of the house.
In a few moments an elegantly dressed, gentle-looking lady came into the room, and good Mr. North turned to her, stammering out his story.
"How remarkable!" exclaimed Mrs. Martin. "I am sure it is my husband's nephew Jesse. Oh, if he had but lived to see this day! His sister Helen ran away from home to marry a young sailor, and she was never heard from again. This Miss Holsover must have known her. But why should she not have brought the child to us, when poor Helen so evidently desired it?"